The silver tree is a white ghost
in the dimpled white of last week’s snow
as the pale glow in the eastern sky
shows where the short-lived sun will rise
while night withdraws itself to where
a thin moon hangs above the hills.
The coloured lights of the coming feast
Shine in the silent streets below;
The last cries of the drunken night
Are echoes, and the drinkers sleep.
The birds wait, frozen on the tree.
A prayer stirs in the coldest heart.
© C.M.M. 12/11