The comet casts its own shadows
Pausing, somewhere north
To absorb the midnight dreams
Of children and
Of the absolute snow.
The whole world seems to be up late:
Existing between presence and some
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
‘Regard the ash of the Christmas fires.
Does it resemble snow?’
written for Christmas Time by Stephen Leake
© .Stephen Leake. All rights reserved. No part of this text may
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