The silver tree is a white ghost
in the dimpled white of last week’s snow
as the pale glow in the eastern sky
shows where the short-lived sun will rise
while night withdraws itself to where
a thin moon hangs above the hills.
The coloured lights of the coming feast
Shine in the silent streets below;
The last cries of the drunken night
Are echoes, and the drinkers sleep.
The birds wait, frozen on the tree.
A prayer stirs in the coldest heart.
© C.M.M. 12/11
Oh Christine - the killer last line- this is one of your best.
ReplyDeleteThat is beautiful and profound, Christine and as Rosemary says - the last line really hits home.
ReplyDeleteSimplicity and truth- the landscape of the heart- again, thank you
ReplyDelete