At Christmas
By hilary west
- 1525 reads
Long icicles drip from the window frame,
It is like a Crunchie bar of packed ice,
Its golden honeycomb stuffed with snowflakes.
The inside window sill drowns.
My rabbit's paw is wet mush: all luck run out.
Towels are sodden: they need frequent wringing out.
Like the bells of Christmas tidings, not of joy
But precarious living.
The gas fire gutters,
Living flame turning colour, blue to orange.
Maybe it is warmer because of the cold,
My old frame asleep in the armchair,
The cat stretching on the rug,
The radio tells the story of a Child's Christmas in Wales,
And in the wild, dark night
I know my youth will never come again.
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Comments
In the melancholy of mid
In the melancholy of mid-winter cold and dark, and often being alone indoors more (especially during these lockdown rules), the sense of aging and weakening health can settle like a black dog —
then it is time to cheer oneself up, and see what can be done about increasing warmth, and warm clothing, and in particular trust in the words of promises of Christ, and turn to him to come into our hearts as Companion!
Rhiannon
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that old joke, it wasn't
that old joke, it wasn't lucky for the rabbits. lovely piece of christmas cheer.
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I found the warmth in your
I found the warmth in your poem with the cat streching out on the rug, and the armchair by the living flame turning from blue to orange, the radio telling a story while it's cold and wild outside.
I think I could enjoy this scene, sounds comforting.
Jenny.
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This seems very sad to me,
This seems very sad to me, particularly the last line, the only certainty in your poem full of words about change - precarious, maybe, dripping, melting. Yet there is warmth all the way through - the snow can't get inside, where the cat is so warm it stretches. Outside is wild and dark, but inside is peaceful with the colours of the fire. I hope you stay warm and safe and welll and have a happy new year.
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