The eve of day least sunlit:
bleat of sheep in bleak mid-winter
nocturne, nestled ‘midst one ‘nother
‘neath thatched, woodbeamed shelter.
The solstice aft’ the death-throes
of the sun rend the horizon;
sinking flame o’erlaid by th’lifeless
cloak, adorned with silent stars.
Heat-death quietude – the solar
spirit stands in stillness; solitary
sings the servant girl til
joined by lowing chorus.
A ewe, alone in wand’ring
on the outskirts of the town,
lies down in purity, her lamb
of mourning left to chase the Jordan.
Bayit-Lekhem in wintrous calm as
coarsest night kills evening.
The hovels house their sleepful rest,
passed o’er by angelus.
Wisps o’whispers – wistless – waft
o’er deepest valley wide;
peak: the tippingturningtidefall
moves the waters – breaking – west.
Image credit – Wendy Dewey