Change is visible; it’s in the air
my breath like steam from the soup spoon.
Along its length, the glasshouse draws in flower
and fern, some tender-hearted émigrés
but mostly patterns cut in ice. The life-size models
in suspension, in their shelter belts
hibernating with hedgehogs.
Sequence of season is determined in the heavens
and fast by the heavens, that great hunter
has come to rest, overhead, at the midnight hour.
We begin another round of countdown
days ticked off, December ticking by.
Almost at the end, a neonate appears
totem against each annual death or maybe
to shift some universal blame.
Aeons ago they say an Eastern megastar was born
a goat-signed mystic healer and we toss tinsel into Yule
as birthday celebrants. How faux! An adventitious advent
confined to numbered boxes. This re-birther
is as water from the Spring
a searing sword of solstice
a magnitude of Autumn tempest, stiller than winter.
Now is just the coming of the Yew, our churchyard shade
where blackbird sings for its succulent supper
berry-fleshed and pipped with poison.
So let us deck the walls and halls with feathered fir
that old dark spell of evergreen that summons
all the thens of past and future tense
where roses bloom in sprigs of our imagining.
And this Northern landscape, picked clean as turkey bones
has room for all our resolutions.
Thank you to Laura Bloomsbury for this. Laura blogs at https://poetrypix.com/
Laura says: As a child I learned and loved to recite poetry. Only in these advanced years have I started to write my own lines.
We are so lucky that she decided to write those lines.