The Christmas Gift

Who looked for luck but no slither

of moon peeped. Just hard specks

like dust as dusk enclosed eternity.

It ran with great gold coins

for wheels and one white mare

that moved with feline fluidity.

Outside a big, rambling house

this vehicle stopped. Noticed

yet unnoticed a figure still watched

as costumed Santa stacked

coloured boxes and windows

were festoons of smiling children.

The boy looked down but no four-

leafed clover grew amidst

frost-blacked, strandy grasses.

Then the horse, glowing in lamplight,

ears like witches' hats, except ivory,

neighed, scraped a soft hoof,

seemed to nod his way. Done,

the carriage moved and in a swirl,

was gone. But before him

something shone. A horseshoe,

bright, fresh, luminous as a new moon.

And the stars warmed, reformed.

Mary Charman Smith