Half broken Christmas trees waken me
To an ice gathered pathway behold
Of a skyline in moonshine spatters
I flatter myself in a writer’s moment
Green branched broken gateways
Make way for a family parting
Are they gated to the ice shadings?
Or have they started plans for a year to show?
A dark pathway pacens, emaciated demons
Through ice-cold enrichment of firescapes
Weights the lapsides, green-sides, makes way beside
I slip to the beat of the breath, wet eyed, inside
Bestilled in chilled weary, teary takes me
Awakening the sounds of the white fox
Who’s found in the ground of a boy
Shaken by the man in his guise
As shades depleted, and memories defeated
Pleasantly raiding the gazes a tree steals
Shielding itself well in hellish cold weather
Beholding the dying of the Winter light.
Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man and sometime writer. He lives in Glasgow, having written from the perspective from Cork, Madrid and Prague. He has written for OutlawPoetry, VadaMagazine and FromTheLighthouse.