Christmas roses bloom in the dying of the light

But it’s not a rose it’s a beautiful buttercup, slight

Like the golden marvels we used to decide

Which side our bread was buttered.

Do we like butter or not? Was the yellow

Reflected on our chin? These flowers resemble

The wild rose – poisonous to humans –

Helleborus niger macranthus –

Enough to tangle any tongue.

Words weave their magic:

On the palate or on the page.

Thinking is believing

It’s never too late

For there’s a shadow behind the sun, words

Echo; stuck in transit, the music of the birds

Brims with lives at stake, as all hearts ache.

Years pass by like phantoms, the passions of the heart

Depart, silence breeds silence, the faeries torn apart.

Forget what you remember, give and never take.

Veil the mysteries of time, of place, of everything

Mirror the wind tonight, shake us into spring.

Need what has been lost. Plead, beg, yearn.

Perceive the mystery, half-create the stillness of the sea, 

We only catch a glimpse, so let's wrap our dreams

In ghost writing, for what is, is what it seems to be.