55th spiritual gleamer

“rust is simply

an oldness


and newness


- like years passing -

there’s a moon in half shyness

“come covet me in cloud quiet”

a shiver asks the ground to

become colder, jewels are

about to be born and want

to risk falling

infancy thru all these wintry

panes, sleighs will arrive soon

when the forecast of daydreams

are asleep, the night is simply

dented with stars and waits,

waits for an apparel of ice

it’s late november and children

build inside quite excitable spires,

mistletoe hinges out of lordly trees

wild hairdos about to fling out globes

white as an oyster’s covet, mid-air

pagan theatres, birds are scant, dew

unheard of now where the frost now paints

there’s bronze upon the hill where the

reindeers will race from tho silent as

a footfall of yuletide, berries are in

traffic light guise of expressive blushes,

a scarce robin dashes, early creases

silver leafed where a sunbeam rests

tied up parcels with colourful lightening

scenes of mellow wreathes and polar bears

in festive hats, secrets enrobed in red

waiting for that wow to be released when

ripped, nine hours before beds will have

their captives, feasts aplenty for those

antler headed

midnight is deep where everyone drifts,

that star in a cosmic eyelid lit as a bright

doorway, rooftops expect striding expect

each chimney to shudder, the morning of

will be such excitement such magicians

piled like rainbow rubble

“i am snowdrift filled to the heart”

rust is simply

wisdom a

compilation of

what has


“i am snowflake built of memories, of all my outlived christmases”

all are hollows of kindness, the people there now in spirit

there’s a 5am clamber, an expedition from

avalanches of cheerful pillows and

dinosaur emblazoned sheets, have there

been footsteps here where wonder is

about to burst its gift? clues of quite vanish

where the artificial pine shimmers, gasps of

and astonishes

morning awoke, those expecting chilblain

palaces of enormous white, expecting bough

shoulders to hold arctic dandruff will have

to lower themselves thru disappointment,

a tear-stain grey as a coastal spit and a hint of

wetter presents to come

there are empty chairs where laughter used

to, there should have been that someone,

was there then now gone, today does not

taste the same, and tinsel flickers less,

absence feels like a mountain’s width,

thankfully childhood windows are full of


not here, sadly only dreamier

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