This,

This is why it’s good to be alive –

the rising and scattering of wings

up into the early mist,

stabbing white on grey on white;

the creeping fingers of sycamores

circling the late November wood.

And advent soon to dawn.

His coming will be silent, swift,

piercing the dark,

stripping us bare –

a flash of memory,

a momentary hope of

stillness.

The trees watch,

the sky groans,

the cold ground attends

his footfall.