simonhlilly

IN THE TEETH OF WINTER.

.

The sun, it is hanging in the holly.

It is tangled in the oak tree.

It feeds what creatures it might.

.

The year, made of fruits, made of blossoms,

Is yet a cauldron of melting snow,

Barely born, barely breathing.

.

Kindled and crackling, the day spits shadows.

We are all storytellers when we can do little else.

Telling of deceit and guile,

And how the great sun could be brought so low,

Our saviour bound, hostaged.

.

A song to return our hopes.

A song to fend off darkness.

A song to teach the children

That all is not lost.

Though we fear it is.

–