Poem for Advent

The wind dies, drawing the blinds of night
Upon a tarnished, silver earth.
These are cold times, small, quiet
Days of half-life, turning gently
With the year, still as frosted lakes.
Build up the fire, sweet one,
Pile log upon log until the red heart
Whitens, scattering tinselled stars
Into a dark, far void of distance.
Then seek the dawn in magic hours
Rich and full with glowing dreams
Fallen from realms of ancient love.
Await the time of breaking light
As, far from a grey silence, ages call;
Soft trumpets sounding judgement
In a child’s first cry.

The Rev’d Canon Trevor Hicks, Bolsover