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Spring Christmas

Snow refreshes all it touches. Gone
are the sodden leaves as night from day
as day to night is given. The boughs will strain
as a white hand lets loose glittery arrows,
landing on the heads of children playing,

or in the city streets from drooping eaves
exploding on the fine grey foot-mashed slush.
Faces red and glowing like strings of lights
juggle in the warm gift-wrapped air of shops.

But when the Christmas tree is down and browned
our heads will turn to warmth from the south
chasing the northern cool back again
with spring and jump like hares in seeded fields.

On the last festivity the throngs emerge
while tiny hands lie still awake in bed
and hear their parents talk like strangers,
heroically, of gifts delivered and gained
in a great battle of monied friendship.

After the last night there come many more
of sky-held anvils weighting weary faces.
When the cold invades the playful bronchial pipes
racking them like rattles after New Year
is there any sky lighter than spring hope?


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