Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve

The birds make fake bird songs
that I heard in the Christmas shops,
the fake moon is spotted before dark,
the navyblue sky is waiting
for its absence to be filled,
houses stand like sentries,
men in windows sharpen knives,
dogs bark at the fading light,
black specks of carbon birds
circle my head
because I am one
who will not look up,
the small boy counts down,
radio and TV hop with expectation,
the weather changes,
the bookmaker gives good odds on snow,
all is meant to change,
the barometer moves up and down
the human heart,
cloying melodies bring tears
to those who depart;
it is a time of arrival
where the moss grows green
and the harvest that was gathered
can now be shared between
the angels carrying candles
and the drunk who sways in the wind.

From my collection Rus in Urbe published by Doghouse Publishing.