A web of black birch and silver on water, on pasture,
Netting the pillars of colour, lacing the pillars of light,
A reticulation of ambiguous space we gaze into, through,
Yet always end on the surface, where we start.
This is a time to take refuge in the connectedness of things and
Forsake the privileged instant for the gradual and continuous.
Our moments mate and spawn like the forfeit of
One decision towards a greater shared reality,
Improving truth with pattern,
The solid dissolving in a new winterlight,
A branching and echoing interruption of
Horizon or vanishing point.
In the business of looking, I collect, you surrender:
But the least push deserves an answering pull.
Christmas Poem 2015 by Andrew Lambirth