Fir in room and wintry pungency,
Bringing of wood to Pagan day,
Pricks blue flamed the hearth with holly,
Blood sparked in wainscot and in ingle,
Then wintergreen the senses tingle,
And the hearts holy fly ~
Hangs by the door, the white eyed mistle,
Green boomeranged to steal a kiss,
And wreathed above the knocker ivy fronds,
Twist to a Yule, needly light pines feather,
Snowed as the logs brought to the hall,
Beyond the weather,
Dried to crack and call.
Silver to hinge,
On filbert, walnut, chestnut, round,
From their trees given,
And this guest tree into the corner welcome,
To sing to heaven and return the sound
Of cooing summer, to these dark, short days,
Green to the house in prayers of return,
Resins resonant with praise.
I am a writer living in Yorkshire, England, recently retired from the teaching profession. I have always written and love poetry and have a large backlog of work. I have, through my own neglect had little published. I had four poems in a recent anthology: "Viral Verses," put together to raise funds for the NHS and am currently working with a sculptor writing poems to complement his work. I have a few collections on the go: "Norse Gods," "Box of Ochre," "Water Dancing with the Moon."