Overnight, the world has been sculpted
from white marble. Birds silent, sky
pewter-heavy, roofs of houses sloped
with sugar, cast at angles of old fairytales.
You will be waking soon to the same
fine-veined weather as me, sharing
sudden rime, morning’s clutched blanket
spread over two countries, with only words
to keep us warm. For the past months
only the lightest kiss of winter has ever
visited, like a boring aunt who comes
for Christmas, wanting to talk about
how things used to be, but today the air
will taste clean as vodka, my skin
singing this hymn of light, trees stark
in their glittering, shards of milder days
splintering underfoot, whispering
something familiar, something lost.
December turns breath into calligraphy;
I write your absence with each step –
Now our guest editor, Olga Dermott-Bond has been a stalwart of our Christmas series every year since its inception. This one’s my favourite.