Crismas the poem

The comet casts its own shadows

Pausing, somewhere north

To absorb the midnight dreams

Of children and

Luminous refrains

Of  the absolute snow.

The whole world seems to be up late:

Existing between presence and some

Biblical space…

Out, where that bright star begins.

The season’s breeze sings

(With the pageants of frost),

To the sacred structure

Of the Christmas dawn.

And they arrive:

These spirits of reason

With their language of lights;

Flaring and feasting

On unsleeping prayers.

We hear them-

Their copper voices

Ghosting the night

Through the candle-flame

Flicker of trees.

‘White is the colour of the heart’ they cry

As the world makes merry and the logs

Burn low.

‘Regard the ash of the Christmas fires.

Does it resemble snow?’