Alone on a Sunday night

She sat alone wrapped in grey and indigo
Feeling blue
Burgundy surrounded her
Wrapping her in it's warm embrace
Its texturally pleasing face.
It had been a bitterly cold February day
The North wind clawing at the fabric of the lighthouse
Like a potter refashioning his clay
And now darkness lay its mantle o'er the icy shore.
The roar of the incoming tide
Made her want to take cover and hide.
She bade a hasty retreat
From the ice cold fingers clawing at her feet
The howling of Sirens, wailing defeat.
She sat alone on Sunday night
Picked up her pen
And began to write
All alone wrapped in grey and indigo
Feeling blue.