The Still Season
Silhouetted by the last cold light,
the stubble of trees on distant
double chins of hill
and nearer, branches flung
wide and bare
like casualties of war.
it is the still season- the knots
of frozen schoolkids,
the traffic crawling homewards,
even the sun, pale and hesitant.
The world is in abeyance.
Behind our tinsel and bulbs
we peer at the night,
stark and silver in fields
and corners beyond street light,
and fear easy, endless magic
when the year dies.