A glass bauble hangs first,
Itself, upon bristles flat, fat and green.
In relief, windows shatter the surface
of the dome.
The canvas is cracked,
into several shards
the curve, where the shine
Green bristles, flat though they are
Exist in as a life in the current of living,
A Christmas tree extrapolated,
From it’s homeland, and shipped right in
Through European borders; past migrants,
Lapping up the water, a tree’s lifeblood
Keeps it living, in motion.
The evergreen fingers, thread
Hung suspended, black mirrors.
Tree looks at it’s self- a picture of health
Whilst the light trapping sheen,
Coat of decorative, glassed bauble
Reflects an illusion of shattering,
The twiggy, naked sleepers,
Beyond doors- Willow’s Weepers.