Walking All Winter
The sunset bleeds in vivid magenta,
And the orange crested sun,
Pursued by an entourage of cloud,
Sinks into the outer gloom,
To convalesce in a ministry of shadows.
The snow is deep and wet,
And my piston legs are throbbing and raw,
All my earnest labouring,
Has rendered only decrepitude,
Walking all winter in a famine of fulfillment.
The sky is darkening in metaphysical mischief,
And like a gang of mean spirited pirates,
The black edged clouds envelop the simple Christ,
Pressing His truth into the rank waters of farce and falsehood,
Unscrupulous and damned, they deserve only contumely.
The only remnant of the pristine is the fire light,
Untouchable and sacrosanct in the hearth,
And as my clothes dry on the stand,
And as my feet gain the remembrance of circulation,
I gloat in smug speculation that the precious flame,
Cannot be defiled by gluttonous men…
