In these dreich weeks, no-sun day follows no-sun day: mist clouds
the sugar factory steam, obscures its plume and presses down.
A bouquet of burnt roots, the edge of sweetness. When light cuts
through, low-angled, glowering afternoons lead to longest night.
We walk the shadows’ margin, forage for mistletoe, bring
the outside in. Shrubs in sackcloth guard our abbey flowerbeds:
hessian monks, bound and silent. O Come All Ye Bleak Ding-Dong
Gentlemen! – hear the carols echo, inescapable.
Charity shopping for stocking fillers: the shock of Sambo
chinaware still on display, unwoken to empire’s end.
Scarlet-thick lips, whitened teeth you believed you should never
see again. Dickie bow collar of grinning servitude.
At least he wasn’t labelled Balthazar. That would be going
too far, even in a market town with genteel self-regard.
The quiz of Christmas yet to come. Counting the days, we cut
new blinds to the fashion of old fabric. Black out false dawns.
i . 2025
