MULLED WINE–a Poem for the Yule Season

It begins where the smoke hits your eyes: smouldering peat,
Mutton stew on a broad iron hook,
Deep snow. How can it ever have been summer?
Apples wrinkling and mice in the barley—
With so much to fear, thank the gods for company!

We’ll tell our tales, remember how we passed the cold
Last year, and the one before.

And those who couldn’t.

The grape leans across
The seasons, clasps the hand of summer’s
Dried rind, dreaming the new fruit,
Calling the sun back,

World without end amen.

—Mark Green

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