One dull December tier two afternoon,
I biked out from Rodborough’s dull streets,
Then along the Slad valley to Bulls Cross:
Past wintry pollarded willow trees,
All lined along the lanes;
Past wandering figures with yuletide logs,
Like revenants in the fogbound fields;
Past families cutting mistletoe,
Long handled secateurs silhouetted
Against the western cumulus cloudscape;
Past rooks, gathering in the quickening dusk,
All calling in the copse;
Until all was still, and silent,
At sunset:
That moment,
When all life seems to be suspended.
I stood, listening to the twilight silence,
Then turned my bike for home.
And when I returned to Rodborough,
Nocturnal winter-spring had somehow sprung:
Doors were hung with stars and wreaths of holly,
Braided with mistletoe and ivy;
Windows were now ablaze with lights,
And with glittering trees and candles:
The calendar of dark December
Marking Advent's luminous progress,
Glowing in the red brick suburban streets.
Christmas has come to Rodborough:
The magical alchemy of winter.
First 3 photographs below by Stuart Butler
All others by Bill Hicks
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