|
|
Sue VickermanPoems |
|
The copyright in all material appearing on this website remains with the authors. No part of this website may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners. |
December 24th
Sue Vickerman
It is almost five. It is Heiligabend.
The forecast shows snow cartwheeling over Saarland.
The sun goes down on your cul-de-sac,
on your parents' small, well-tended garden.
Your yard is swept. Your steps are gritted.
Your mother's broom rests in an apple tree's elbow.
She hurries outdoors at the very last minute
to dead-head a rose.
Your father is on the point of lighting
the candles on a tree dug out of the Saar Basin
which, from the plane, glittered
like a Christmas card.
You have always told me how the waiting
was hard; was the best thing of all: how,
when the bells finally toll across the valley,
the whole village feels holy.
