This year it seems so easy, the presents,
the oven-work (with my kind roasting tin).
I buy the high grade booze to slip slowly.
So, night broad-feathered with galactic wings
(a little host ghosts round the Pleiades)
the bright planets too, clearly declaiming -
in memory, as I stuff stockings full,
recalling my dead father and some guilt
about my disappointment one hard year
over a wooden canon fit for zip
but oversized good looks. I have to stop.
stumble out again, (toppling the line prop)
just to get that frame, that clear zoom star-field:
I'd wear it like a helm till time called cold.
...........
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
