Smoke coils from a chimney stack into a clear blue sky.
The smell of burnt leaves and charred wood fills the air.
Holly berries along the garden path are ripe red
And a blinding laser beam of light bathes every speck of dust
In a transcendent glow.

People soldier on down the road, hands deep in pockets,
Necks scarved, feet double-socked.
Walking half-bent, noses dripping,
They are yearning for warm linen sheets, mince pies in the oven,
And to sit by the fireplace, happy, like Tiny Tim.

It feels like a last hurrah,
Putting decorations up one minute, then away again a moment later.
Tingles and tinsel are tidied away in the attic
As our skeletal form curls in on itself--
Souls warmed after savouring the good.

Does any of it matter?
This basking in the sunlight, the winter radiance, the intense stillness?
I like to think it does.
I like to think this moment can be caught in the palm of my hand
And held for ever more, which is Now.
 
As I sit here in the garden,
I am entranced by the evergreen standing firm by the black-barked oak,
Creating a wizened starkness as a crimson dusk falls,
Making me feel that everything is connected somehow,
Present somehow.


© by Nicholas Henshall
Used with the author's permission.