December Postcard

The lane-way and the highway and the trail to wood and dale

The evergreen and cottage scene and silver-scripted vale

Portray the winsome long ago; of younger fields and fells

And almost we can hear the one-horse-sleigh and jingle bells

The blue of dusk descends at dawn tinting hill-scape and yard

Where ambiance of Christmas-past nurture’s nature’s post card

Of white-capped hush and fleece-wrapped bush; of frost-frothed fallow-sea

How tender-soft the Artist brushes gilded reverie

Grand isles of May and merger of green-gold slumber beneath

A sweeping surge of diamond-splurge, holly and Christmas wreath

Out where the summer-garden courted laughing, lounging hours

Its single boast is sported in boreal, snow-flake flowers

The modern girth of tortured earth is tucked in solitude

As winter spills its merry mirth in childhood vim renewed

And glad lad hails the sweet regale where heaven’s chattering

Covers the floor of mead and moor with down of angel wing

The bronze of autumn-languor spills its final crinkled fronds

Save for the long-stemmed teasel or the cattail curtailed ponds

And where the coveted romance of youth and spring entice

A keener beauty spins its gossamer of snow and ice

We probe the dying ember; set the polished pot to boil

A morning in December soothes the tedium of toil

With ginger tea in hand we gaze across earth’s frozen swells

Where almost we can hear the one-horse-sleigh and jingle-bells

© Janet Martin

The lane-way and the highway and the trail to wood and dale

The evergreen and cottage scene and silver-scripted vale

Portray the winsome long ago; of younger fields and fells

And almost we can hear the one-horse-sleigh and jingle bells

The blue of dusk descends at dawn tinting hill-scape and yard

Where ambiance of Christmas-past nurture’s nature’s post card

Of white-capped hush and fleece-wrapped bush; of frost-frothed fallow-sea

How tender-soft the Artist brushes gilded reverie

Grand isles of May and merger of green-gold slumber beneath

A sweeping surge of diamond-splurge, holly and Christmas wreath

Out where the summer-garden courted laughing, lounging hours

Its single boast is sported in boreal, snow-flake flowers

The modern girth of tortured earth is tucked in solitude

As winter spills its merry mirth in childhood vim renewed

And glad lad hails the sweet regale where heaven’s chattering

Covers the floor of mead and moor with down of angel wing

The bronze of autumn-languor spills its final crinkled fronds

Save for the long-stemmed teasel or the cattail curtailed ponds

And where the coveted romance of youth and spring entice

A keener beauty spins its gossamer of snow and ice

We probe the dying ember; set the polished pot to boil

A morning in December soothes the tedium of toil

With ginger tea in hand we gaze across earth’s frozen swells

Where almost we can hear the one-horse-sleigh and jingle-bells

© Janet Martin

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