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Poetry Magnum Opus

The Christmas wind horse


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The robin had guessed prints in the

snow were not those of the wind-horse,
an incarnation of the last breath of a
bearded man that once covered the earth
like a shroud. Hail hammered breast make
it's ascent up the cathedral pane, figures
in the glass have a gaze that is forever
cast, like that of man who cannot see
beyond the time worn out ornament
Christmas has become. The stallion
contained every wind and breeze that
had ever blown, the little bird carried
every carol that had ever been sung,
but one. The horse carried the robin
on Christmas eve as he dreamt about
hearing the final words of a cipher
on a cross, then a dream about
passing over two thousand aimless
steps in a wilderness. Woken by
persistent glassy mists, the robin
sang with the only taker for midnight
mass, strange scarred male, together
they created an incantation, a spell
as winter gusts stroked midnight's bell.
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  • 2 weeks later...
David W. Parsley

I sense a new development in your work that sustains tone and narration more seamlessly, Barry. No loss of symbol or originality, just a more holistic treatment. An evocative meditation on Christmas and how it continues to morph in our reciprocating definition and experience of it. Here the holiday resists such revision through the presences that haunt and congregate within the poem. Fine symbolist work.


Thank You,

- Dave

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