Thistle House

When the cold wind blows in February,

up against her cheeks, blushing them burgundy,

and the moonlight filters through the curtain lace,

down at Thistle house, she lights the fireplace

When she opens both the French windows,

lays After Eight on fluffed pillows,

and lights scented candles of cinnamon and vanilla,

for guests arriving tonight from far away Manilla

Oh down at Thistle House…

when the vinyl starts to play,

while she walks in all her grace,

to open the iron gates

Dear damsel…

all your riches start to fade,

and in your eyes it stares so plain,

let him take you down the lane

A lonely walk… out of sight

And the pines…they whisper to the night

– Devanga Witharanage