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
The trees watch,
the sky groans,
the cold ground attends