Host of Memories

Turning his face to the descending ice crystals, he shut his eyes: mmmm.  Nice.  Then, putting his plate down on a stall, he cut into the pudding with his fork.  A sprightly dance of Christmas joined a host of memories in his mouth.  That was good.  Very good.  A light pastry case with mincemeat filling, a thick layer of marzipan ice cream and baked meringue to cover.  That was more than good: that made one remember the first ever taste.  As porches of warm houses aand memories of parties burst upon his tongue, a girlfriend's warm hand in his, he walked her home in the snowy moonlight.  Now he was smiling.

Carol Singing

'Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown.'

The voices of the Richards boys came to him clearly on the winter air.  Carol singing somewhere round the village green no doubt.  He felt a light touch in his hand, as if a child had just taken it.  Looking down and all around there was no child to be found.

Star of Evening

Ahead of him to the east the first star of evening began to appear.  Stopping, he watched it twinkling, dancing over the waves on the edge of the world.  'Spend this long night with me.'  Had she whispered it to him, as they kissed and hugged under the mistletoe, in a grove of oaks?  Or had he just imagined she had?

Sandalwood & Oranges

She'd smelt of sandalwood and oranges.....Facing the great tree, her arms reaching round its massive trunk, he'd lifted her up.  Then, their hoard of mistletoe around their feet, in a grove of oaks, she'd kissed him.  It had been a good day.

Glittering Youth

But how on this mossed bank of joy had he cheated the rooster?  Or could this wood of love turn back the crow-blackened edges of mouths to the once rose-pink lips of glittering youth?  An icy hand touched the back of her neck.  Cheating the precipice of ages made her uneasy and she felt the wind blow cold in a far away wood.

Daggerwood

At the far boundary of his property, he could see the hedge of bronze and crimson leaves.  Daggerwood.  The wood of a hundred thousand arrows from the English longbow.  The woods were full of songs, full of magic, full of history.  But the song that bothered him was the one that came to him on the air, barely distinguishable from the clatter of branches in the wind.  Children's voices all together.  Sometimes high in the leafy summer canopy.  Sometimes just over the hedge amongst the bindweed and nettles.

Poetry

I think it's true that, for some people, poetry is food for the mind.  Words, odd words, taken out of their normal context, can encourage the mind to spread, to imagine, to dream.  Read The Promise Tree.