The inky dark December sky outside is punctured
Holed by a luminous moon, cold and full and bright.
But inside, there are three candles and eleven tea lights burning
There is peace, there is warmth, there is complete quiet.
Shifting currents below the surface are heralding something good
An almost imperceptible sense of motion quivering the air;
I sense a faint scent, a trace of a taste on the edge of my tongue,
The aroma of hope. A hint of something stirring. Something’s there.
Tantalising. Something deeply hidden is turning over,
Slowly but steadily, like a flower bulb moving below ground
To reach cold winter light far above. Like a mediaeval coin
Long buried in a field, waiting for the right moment to be found.
Spring is distant but all is not lost.
Sunlight always overwhelms frost
