The Duel

 

The fire is iced in the box-

unkindled lies in a lair. 

Awakes when the desire knocks,

or hides deep inside somewhere.

Sometimes its fragrance escapes

as the ice vapours away. 

Then this fire new attire drapes,

and no frost can make it sway. 

Gloves are off when undisguised-

ice on fire or fire is iced. 

The Beach

 

She waits for the tide to ebb.

Old bones creak with every step. 

She drags on with resilience

for the beach gives her the pep.

Wine-Less

 

The days appear so clear now-

proof of a long pending vow.

Though dusk lures with its intent-

the wine does not tempt somehow.