Under the mistletoe
Air and Earth

The season between New Year and Valentine
Has no remembered name, belonging to a
Savage god, whose rituals outlaw fireworks,
Trees, feasting or excess of any kind.

It’s a raw time, a daily drag to push apart
Late dawn and early dark to find some light.

Driving through country lanes, delivering late gifts
To distant friends, we swear the only light
At all at this benighted time,
Comes from a low and vicious sun
Strobing through a stand of leafless trees
Smacking our faces, running us off the road.

For our own good, we stop. What’s that? You say.
High up in the girlish arms of a naked rowan,
Bouquets of mistletoe. The old parasite!
Missed the office parties, the druid’s knife,
He’ll only catch the birds up there.
Drawn, we plough over the rutted fields.
Although there was no music,
And the earth was iced with frozen snow,
Coats open, we danced, and in spite of the season,
We kissed beneath the mistletoe.