[Mark McDonnell]

Wintering

For a long time he watches from the window,
watches the waving trees that break the horizon
where the road grows faint, dips and vanishes.
Something will be coming, he has heard,
perhaps in motley, with apples and wooden toys,
perhaps to bring news of some dreadful struggle.

Or perhaps, he thinks, it has already been,
has crept into the room like Christmas Eve
to kiss his brow. It knew he was not ready,
and before it left — smiling, walking backwards —
had leaned close to his ear to sing him songs
of his childhood, songs of roaming and return.
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