by Sheila Barclay
Mulled Wine
A
Spruce
fir tree
dark
glossy green
stands
stately in the forest scene,
dreaming
of what might have been.
Snowy
tips glisten in the starry night,
silver
dollar moon bestowing winter light.
A
Frosty breeze blows through the sky, and all the branches gently sigh.
They
whisper, they murmur, then shake the snow free; a snowstorm of white in the
cold arctic breeze.
Their
roots sleep on
frozen but still alive,
dreaming
of new life
when
Spring arrives
*******************************************
A
Spruce
fir tree
drops
his resin tears:
in
this warm house he is so alone,
and
sadly sobs for his lost forest home.
His
roots cruelly chopped, his branches droop low,
needles
heavy with baubles, flashing fairy lights aglow.
Small
children adore his beauty so much, and smile as their fingers gently touch,
sweet
faces reflected in the bright hanging balls that twirl and dance as more pine
needles fall
Oh
tinselled tawdriness
of
this sad Christmas tree
who
dreams of the forest
and
what might have been
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