There is no-one to phone
on this day of days - the
coldness and the limited
nature of last night's sermon
and prayers articulates
a lack of presence, a
middle distance, the only
telling thing worth uttering:
snow on the hills far
in the distance beyond
the cold, white sea-frills.

We will be there soon,
breathing-in crisp clear 
air and bracing our skin
against its blast, 
when we leave the silence
and the space of this
heavily-swagged room
overlooking bare trees
and flags.

Up and down the country
on either side, where
roads and quiet and
TVs loud, are squealing
children with too much
energy, not knowing where to
place it, or how direct
the urge they feel, and
pink-faced mothers with
busy fingers and
frowns of concentration
begin the arduous day.

Here, in our quiet slow way
we woke to heat and a 
white sky.  The shower is
hot and our companionable
silence spreads across our
Christmas like a
pale Spring day at dawn.

No-one to phone
this day of days, there
is no thought winging
its way, and the
attention diverted
of all those I know
towards immediacy
and rush, proximity
of chaos.  I place instead

my eyes to pleasure and
the lines in my skin -
wrist-barometer of
where I am and
where I've come, and the
small fine strands of grey -

far away are those
in time and space, in
dark matter and movement
I would greet
and say
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