Midwinter

The shortest day approaches

on Cally forest paths,

silver- edged ferns.

Soil is sugar icing coated.

 

Few furred creatures move.

Night falls on Christmas Eve.

 

A first star appears,

lights oak tree branches, escaped winter firs,

sharpens palace stone and roof.

Stillness fills the Temple.

 

A sense of waiting hangs,

as might have filled a stable once.

 

Emptiness sighs.

Carols faintly echo

from Gatehouse streets and kirks.

 

A twig underfoot snaps

like a Christmas cracker.

In townhouses,

children's dreams open like parcels.


Liz Niven

The Temple: Diary


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