Winter

[incantation]

Spider's web at attic window, panopticon 
Of frost, finding old Christmas 
Cards and discovering lost 
Rooms of memory and
Lost corridors of time.
Wind in the chimney is like
Ghost of a relative trying
To escape from a dream.
Hull parks in winter, Pearson,
West and pickering, I am
Like a genie with three lamps.
Seagulls have set up their
Camp on green spaces, with 
Their reflections missing
On coastal waters. Faces of 
Visitors to the victorian 
Park Pearson that would 
Never be photographed, flakes
Of snow those reflected and
Ones that miss streams.
How many songs does 
The cemetery robin have,
Fleeting frost on faded graves
How many gone craved authentic 
Lives, to influence events, winds 
Blow against immovable statues.
Perhaps a stars reflection on water
Will be lost with those of snow,
I have foraged for the voice of a forgotten
Christ amongst the hollow enclaves,
Artificial lights. Which song 
Does the robin sing for the dead,
Which star do I hold the candle flame against. On Christmas Eve
Mass I make a prayer for the 
Flames to rise through the 
Spaces in the matrix of dreams
To fall from the eyes of a messiah
And small bird to discover it's music.

[Terry A]

This poem is nothing short of magnificent. You weave worlds within worlds by imagery that is electric.  

Thanks for this. The mundane not so mundane at all, truly a relief from limited view.