Christmas 1999
It’s already the second Sunday in Advent
and the lake’s just started to freeze over.
Under cover of the long dark,
thin ice has been working out from the shore,
breaking up in the morning sunlight,
which comes in low, angled
from the south slanting like a
Geisha’s eyes querying the
night’s chill.
She is turning the
ice back to its nemesis, its
moment of creation.
It is already clear and grey,
approaching water.
Pussy willows
cautiously bud, look around to see
what’s happening:
(spring perhaps!)
Stalled geese waddle across the grass,
flap to the open water in the bay,
or skid along the shore ice
nearby.
A non-migrant mallard flies up
out of the ditch. A pheasant
takes off with a roar,
hits a window.
Winter birds, nuthatches, downies, jostle
with a robin, a wren for their place at the feeder,
like travellers in airport line-ups,
flights cancelled;
some in bright, short-sleeved shirts
destined, they had hoped, for Arizona
others sweltering in snow suits
heading supposedly for
Alaska.
All schedules are uncertain now,
all the ancient rigours
loose. The secret codes
unlocked. Anything goes:
a gold Christmas, a straw
Jesus, a brown Santa Claus.
Autumn lingers beyond the
winter solstice into the
supposed millennium.
Poems from the Eighth Decade
Used by Permission - Copyright © Harold Macdonald
Harold Macdonald Poetry | An Imperfect Life