Stille Nacht
A white table cloth,
a field of cold
sloped on a Wicklow hill.
Quiet. Chilly silent. Still.
Stark black velvet sky,
pinpricked, star strewn.
The Hunter moves slow
watching all below
his dog at his heel.
Nothing moves worth
hunting on this tableaux.
Breath exhales, reassuringly,
audibly, with every blown hand.
It could be a Christmas card.
A Carol in a bleak mid-winter.
It’s mid -January bleak.
Cold. Bleak.
Hunter hardly moves.
Dog doesn’t bark.
Stille Bleak.
Stille Nacht.
Martin Swords
Winter 2013
Wicklow Writers
