Twenty days from winter solstice, the land
scape withdraws into the horizon
which is suddenly there, right in front of you,
bumping into you, an impossible snowman, winter
too soon, gable erupts with flash of low lying light
as ice crystals blind you though it is only autumn, too
early for snow. You stare at backlit drama as the roof,
tree silhouette, streetlight are exposed where the leaves
hid them all summer; aluminum pod glistens achromatic,
drenched in the rainbow of yesterday’s dew, now today’s
hoar frost promising to blossom each day, when every
thing else is dying;
sing to each other in low muted tones,
gentle splays of warmth, orange red, flickering blue,
the colour of gas rings pulsing against fulminating kettles,
sing heat as night falls, impossibly soon; implausibly human,
we illuminate the frozen, the forgotten,

time to reach out, to remember everything is given,
nothing forgiven, when those who do not have, cannot forgive.
We are not alone. We are not dying, we are just
Let me sing you the song of light fall into satin,
the ribbon of gold that sits serene upon the horizon as we
flee the impending night; watch the light blend pink fantastic,
twist cranberry and lemon into orange and gold until,
fleeting moment, if you turn away you will miss the wine
stain that must be the after glow of some tremendous party.

Now is the time for us to witness the intersplay light serene,
horizon in weave, cloth that lies in secret with the twist
of the night, that draws over us like a blanket, though we
are children impatient not to go to sleep.