Christmas memory

A long time ago, on a Christmas eve

(of a Christmas long forgotten)

awake in the sleeping house,

she crept downstairs to sit, curled in her father’s big chair in the dark,

beside the still warm Rayburn (opening the door a crack to let out the embers’ glow).

Watched the fire fade, breathed in the pine scent of the tree,

until it grew too cold.

Then slipped back up to bed again, and sleep,

till bright day.


Copyright © 2014 Fliss Watts

December 20

Driving home,

we couldn’t find a robin for our small tree

but we are rewarded by the low December sky

seen through winter woods.

How would you render that?

Free-machining on felt, she says

or dyed silk.

No both.

Intricate branches stitched black and fine

on shining sunset, colours run and merge under a hem of soft felt clouds.

Ephemeral light, inconsequential, worth remembering.

Tomorrow the year turns.

In memoriam – December 6, 2013

If we still lived in an age of gods and monsters

of reading runes, bones, stars…

pathetic fallacies…

we would say that yesterday’s (Thor’s day’s) roaring, rattling winds and furious waves were signs, omens –

warnings of a grief…

we would say that this still morning (clear air soft as breath)

is Nature’s mourning for the passing of something great

leaving us small, changed,

like this changing sky.