So this is Christmas, and what have we done?
Chopped a few logs and had wonderful fun?
The earth it is frozen, in shade or in sun,
And the parsnips are locked in ground hard as stone.
A new dawn and a new year - the thaw has arrived but the track to the house is still a sheet of wet polished ice. Soon it may be possible to get back into the garden.
So back to Pomes -
Perhaps as New Year approaches the next poem is better ?
“Time everyone please.” Approaching midnight
God’s publican spreads the towel over the pumps,
tolls the bell by the bar. “Drink up,”
he calls - one final draught of life - and then . . . . .
In this remote inn the door is bolted
and all retire into the snug back room.
God can wait a little longer for their souls,
life has still a dram or two of single cask.
There comes a knock upon the fastened door.
God’s publican opens it a crack, sighs -
God’s policeman stands in the dismal dark.
“You will all have to come with me,” he says,
“But not quite yet.” He leans his sharpened scythe
against the wall. The door is firmly locked,
conversation swells, one golden measure
slowly drained - there is time for one more toast.
“To . . . . . .”
ps. The Sparrowhawk has been back scavenging under the bird feeders. He, it is a he, must be starving.