December
I rise in the dawn
like Yeats’s old
peasant woman,*
the dogs underfoot
rousing Heaven -
but not, if I’m quick,
wife and neighbors -
they deserve later
waking than this.
Food bowls: at the ready.
Silent now the dogs are
scoffing steady,
then - rain or fine
gale or storm
snow or shine -
they race in turn
outside for their first
squat of the day.
Once this is done
the day settles down
to my long cup of tea,
their long sprawling
on the mat, doubting
me over their next outing.
*
After snow you walk
warily avoiding slopes
anticipating slips
especially if like
me you met it last
decades since - oops -
exhilarated first
at the bright white light
crisp layer on everything,
penetrated next
by the sharp chill
where skin’s exposed
or garments thin,
cuffs too loose
or wind insinuates.
One day’s enough
for winter - please
can spring come now?
*
December’s pretty lights
are up and on -
they promise
artificial cheer
until the festive season
expires with New Year.
If you have credit to spend,
prepare to spend it now
before your maxed-out card
reaches its end
and spoils that Twelfth
Night afterglow.
Think of your cousins,
Kiwis, Australians,
sweltering through shopping,
snow-capped Nativities,
perspiring Santa’s padding,
perverse summer activities
like feasting on roast meats
and hot sticky pudding,
under sun that’s scorching.
*'Song of the Old Woman'
http://www.openculture.com/2012/06/rare_1930s_audio_wb_yeats_reads_four_of_his_poems.html
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