I
can see Christmas day
Smoke from the chimney patterns its yarn to
the sky;
The roof is folded inside a white envelop;
The hill is a rumpled parcel a giant slept
in;
Snow fell last night like lost letters from
the heavens;
Mark shouts from the lane he was first to
find the snow.
The air mists into the old bottom-field flaxhole;
Eyelets of icicles lace light through the
hedgerows;
We walk the sparkling air by the fast
flat-stone stream;
Our faces glide like lilies on the water’s
skin;
The wakened Dan asks, ‘Did I hear Santa
last night?’
My somersault of memory springs back to
now;
Pigeons are asking questions of the naked
trees;
On my phone is a photo of Mark laying down
A new schoolroom floor for bright kids in Arusha;
Dan phones me asking, ‘What time is Mark’s
flight due in?’
Under this steep leafless sky I can see
Christmas day;
The leaping stones cheer, the stream throngs
with singing choirs;
Orla spreads the warm wings of her wide-eyed
welcome;
The sound of astounded mother’s love wakes
the sun;
The sight of our boys births our souls back
to wonder.
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