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.