The impatient moan of an Alpine
wind sifts my chalet window’s gap.
As a cast of clouds unwraps the sky
with its dismal mists and its
northern winds I find solace.
Should I close the breach and cease the lament
and feel the warmth of my inglenook
or leave it agape so its poignant tune
can linger my consolation?

Traveling the old world
by land and by sea, I find solace.
The Normandy coast lies calm and extant
like a moor in a cold English rain.
The Chateau De Chambord in the Valley Loire
with its double staircase and it frigid gray keep
or downtown Inverness on a warm Saturday night,
just walking alone I feel solace.

So follow me down my fantasy lane
where troubles lie at the rearmost,
where cottons and lace are ethereal space
and solace is the number one host.