Old Moon
With endless joy of Arctic gongs Freezing, on winter's mourning In the shroud of shifting ice Where it breathes a fiery breath Wearing slippers as clear as glass A silvered reckoning Sharpening the hymns of earth Whispers to the hidden Wisdom gleaned from cathedral nights Of words unsaid, of hopes forgotten Sprinkling through minefields of Christmas Glistening on crystal eggshells Against the frigid night's mulled wine and barley spirits Brushing the days with sticky lips As whispers choked upon the juvenile breeze Drifting into midnight mass Snowflakes were melting the maypole dream. Yet when the feasting and hugging have burnt All is crisp and still. As only snowdrift blankets fettered the land.