The holly from my trees within.
The wood smoke from my fire without.
I leave the house and walk my ground
to take December’s failing pulse.
Quite still. Quite silent. Buzzard. Wren.
This festive walker’s glad at heart
to know with undeluded mind:
there’s human love, and nothing else.
Listen to this poem — read by the author
Chalkface Press is pleased to announce the publication of
by John Richmond
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