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 to rage.
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.