1st Sunday in Advent


Mist low in the valley
Hangs
As the sun cuts through;
The cold
Burns as the stride breaks
Molecular strands;
The breath is cut short
As feet pass
Sheep which stationary
Lie
In quiet contemplation make
Silver of advent dew sparkles
In drifts of white
The damp tarmac glistens
A royal pathway
In clouds descending.

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