Holly Tree at Christmas

Gillian_ferguson_photo_high_resby Gillian K Ferguson07 Aug 2013

The oily Holly drops scripted clots.
Drips encrypted globules,
on violated vellum, laid snow
chaotically written –
children’s chattering feet;
rolled corpus of the glowing evening snowman
posing with absurd grace.

She is a harbinger of beautiful doom.
Sepulchral green soothsayer.
Her viridian leafthorns barbed, skewering any light;
she thrives, illuminated, in glossy gloom.

Conjured from Earth’s natural cathedral,
wild church.

Cultured from first descriptions:
that celestial star-storm
showering possible organisms -
shooting original plasticine atoms,
aching to be molecules.

Still snowing pristine ash,
visible white sound -
immaculate space-chill
tenderly fingertipping skin
like a dead, hankering lover:
which learned the warm words of life
through agonising evolution.
The pounding blood poems
written in dumb mud.

How to melt Christmas tears
of murdered stars –
deceased light still twinkling
in their sentimental eyes.

Until the wise men homed,
reptilian lids drawn -
obsessive with gifts, but humble.
Camel-stumbling all night
over silver lizard-sand –
every grain a shattered glint of broken starlight.

The bleeding tree drips
smouldering berry-holes -
black sockets in scintillating white settings.
Cupping psalters of the immortal Holly,
sealed in scarlet wax.

Where three-toed dinosaur ghosts,
disguised as shrunken birds, blurred with feathers,
embroidered their light-boned bodies’ frail imprint.
In the wickedly smiling, shark-blue twilight.

The sacrificial Robin in his stained vest,
on anorexic legs, was impaled
singing for seeds last under a slashed sky.
Gorging in lurid light on the secretive means of trees;
excreting forests on the snapping wing.
Ignorant of his figurative religious wounding.

From earth’s reluctant furred heart,
cholesterol of ice, she draws clear blood.
Through her adapted root-fangs sucking -
bled by December’s hunted hours
of pale gold ischemic light.
From Gothic sunsets - gory ruins of red light,
alchemising hematic crowns
in the wreath of herself.

And to the soprano Moon, just tuning up,
she will respond. Lustrous glycol -
shining silver wine for her coagulant veins.
Clawed leaves scratching a night transfusion:
syringing star-plasma.
Polishing her verdant oils, vampiric mercury berries,
which will survive the kissing frost at every mouth.

Until the very arboreal skeletons creak out of sleep.
Comatose Oak twitching in cryogenic nightmares
of guillotined royalty. Shivering Chestnut –
dreaming of blazing candelabras
in his regency spring arms. Genius sick Sycamore
feverishly scheming futures in Da Vinci winged keys.

Kneel down their luminous bones at midnight.
On anaesthetised earth, prayer rugs of blue snow.
Lift silently evangelical silver arms -

as a dusting of fallen Christmas Eve stars
showers her green spire - with cosmic glitter.