Midwinter

So comes December
And the burning
Of the solstice bonfire,
This descending month
Of dying embers
And in the grey
Ashes of its days
It is time
Gently,
To lay down the year
Like a new-born child,
Wrapping our thoughts
In swaddling
And our arms
Round our own hearts,
Rocking
Ourselves to sleep,
Slipping,
Quiet
In our accomplishments -
Scarcely breathing -
Into the dormant rhythm
Of the hibernating creatures,
Who,
In their winterfastness
Rest out
The remainder of the year,
Pillowed
On the brown litter
Of the autumn leaves,
Dreaming
Of earthy adventures
As the days shorten
Into insignificance;
The husks
Of summer growth
Scattered unheeded,
Fruits of our earthly year
Held deep in our bellies
While the wind
Whispers sweet nothings
To the earth
And all the colours
Of the land
Are drawn
Unresisting
Into the sky,
Which blazes uncontested
Bathing
The sepia branches
In a crimson wash
Over the plough
And purple shadows
While we sink
With the setting sun
Into nature’s ample lap
Warmed
By the midwinter flame;
The drudgery
Of all our grudges
Forgotten,
All our resentments
Consumed,
All our appetites
Appeased.