At the Turning of the Year So long ago – that spring we woke to see The blackening ash and furling chestnut leaves, The hedges decked in early autumn weeds, The empty nests, the still and solemn hives,
Poles cracked apart, and every ocean scoured, Forest tears rain on scorching earth, Each continent collapsed into an hour, The screaming screened, a ready shrink-wrapped world.
Christmas cheer and bitter winter day Came with berries red as any blood. We’d stretched to stars beyond the milky way, But still in crisis, nothing understood.
At the Turning of the Ear So long ago – that year it seemed we stirred To hear the strains of singing on the breeze, The winging beat of one migrating bird, Roots that murmur, trees communed with trees,
Winds and waves obeyed, wild places won, Hand by handful seeds so softly sown, Slowly quelling engines, groundswell hum, The footsteps of a child gone forth alone.
Hark herald angels at the Christmas cradle, Remember now the moment when it seemed That through the steady eye of a needle, Amazingly, some other song was streamed.