The harder one trys
To work
Om themself&
And the harder
Life seems to
Get.

FLOWERS OF SNOW (Christmas roses)
Margaret Ann Waddicor 24th December 2012.

Flowers of snow,
they blow about the sky like birds in flight,
a sight that sends the senses in a spin,
for deep within our hearts
we love this dance,
this ballet-dance of nature,
as all is frozen, stilled,
and movement only comes
when winter wishes are fulfilled.

We wish, and wish, and wish again
for lightness in the dark,
for moments by the burning grate,
warm sparks of orange bright,
the contrasts of the darkest nights,
with stars of ice, that ******
****** bells on forest trees
of rainbow colours, fired.

For presents below a fir,
the reds and blues with ribbons silver, gold,
as Christmas comes and goes,
the hellebore, its ****** bloom
is plucked from frozen earth,
and brought right in
to Lord the full decked table,
celebrate Messiah's birth.

NATURE’S "CHRISTMAS"

Along the length of river’s rush
the sudden booms of stones in floods
the softened mossy sides and broken trunks
all moistened by the rains of days in grey attire
the padded path now red with needles
rocks with maps and lichens
bilberries now gone,
unless a wizened one hangs on,
high up above the flow
the waterfall
where logs were gathered long ago
a strange incongruous work of art
hangs above the roar in blue and white
as autumn’s voice falls silent
on the wings of faded leaves
she dots her constellations all about
in yellow flecks that decorate the trees
not decked for Christmastide
and yet
this could be used
we nature’s solstice celebrate.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 26th October 2014.

I looked out,
Christmas decorations were already hung up in the sky,
even the frosting floated about
with the lights of the town dwarfed below,
such a glow, each ***** of a star,
the hills, hulks of stone, seemed warmed,
ready for celebrations,
annual explanations of our psyche and its exaggerations,
where the simple tale, just like the one stella, bright,
enacts its cycles in the dark of night.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th November 2014.

When we step into silver and gold
disguise all our sorrow
see faces of joy on each girl and boy
the stars shine much brighter
their magical twinkling light
full of rapture our spirits
with laughter good food and gifts
all wrapped in fine papers that crackle and tear
a sound filling hearts full of awe
at this life in the middle of winter
as we wait for the thaw.

He sat there sad, 
his tree alight with silver ***** and trinkets, 
alone this holy night, while others gather round, 
resound with songs of joy, 
here silence reigns, his frosty panes describe the star.

Now passed away, his friends, his family and foes, 
he meditates, their atmosphere, 
so dear, so fresh, 
so faded in his memory of other times gone by, 
they leap, a flame, a candle in his mind, 
and opened a bright drawer, 
where lay the rosary his mother wore, 
and taking up this precious chain, 
of litanies and prayers. 

He heard his mother's voice again,
he saw her face, 
felt solace in his fears; 
now all the years of health and youth have fled, 
now bled the veins of beating hearts 
that gave him sustenance and sentiments so pure, 
devout; their ether filled the air, 
it was as if he'd taken flight and all his family was there.

A knock awoke him from his dream, 
his magic reverie, 
he was just sitting quite alone, 
who could that stranger be, 
a little boy, just like himself, stood smiling on the mat, 
he sang his favourite Christmas carol, 
his little box for charity held high for all to see, 
but when the penny dropped inside, there was no boy at all.                

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2010.

I'm tempted to yell
Beneath the waxing moon,
Call to the hood whistler
To whistle a tune I knew.
Just one I could recognize,
One to identify;
But it's well above zero
On this shortest day of the year.
My compassion over-rides
The duality in the airs.
Still there's no inkling
Of whatever he's whistling;
I can't locate
Where it originates.
He'll be inside soon,
As we move to hibernate;
I sincerely hope he's there,
Whatever tune he airs,
Come Spring.

My heart is a boiling cauldron stewing with
A pinch of kindness,
A sprinkling of hope,
A dash of hate,
A gram of generosity,
A dram of charity,
A tablespoon of despair,
A measure of temperance,
A teaspoon of patience,
And a shake of faith.
Now, simmering on the element,
I can ladle out bowls of love.