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Sunday, October 16, 2005

Allan Tate At Christmas

Rating: 4.6
On this His winter's day the Christ bells ring
that celebrate this season of despair.
Returns the dear, wronged echoes that now sing
in chorus, almost human, like a prayer.
Again before my fire and regret,
beside those downturned figures from the sleigh
broods tinsel blessings and red, fretted debt-
and neither find a sacred thing to say.
So the hearth still tries its guilt-lamenting song
and all the while it lingers as a curse,
for somewhere-somehow-something's wrong-
like Christmas cards appraised upon their verse.
My human self alone can Jesus save
and so 'in excelsior' to the grave.
Glenn Bagshaw
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