The old stove in the corner is crackling away again.

It tap tap taps to the soft accumulation of snow

To the rhythm of Northern Stars.

I can see them out the window,

Shining their white fire into this kitchen from the pitch sky.

Here in this kitchen of shimmering brass and warmed kettles,

I’m sitting and sipping coffee out of a bright red mug.

Bitter sweet with a hint of smooth caramel and cream.

And I’m thinking to myself about something or other.

Like the geometry of snowflakes clinging to the glass.

Or the feel of slippered feet.

The Grandfather clock has struck nine.

Tall and weathered,

Its dark forehead is laurelled in the green and red of holly strands.

Like an old war hero back from the crusades.

Watching as the ages of holy dust pile up like small cairns,

From Christmas to Christmas.

Tap tap tap, the sound of cookies browning.

As I rise and walk to the sink with my cup

The Coffee sits warm in my belly,

Like the purr of a sleepy cat.

Curling his tail around the heating vent

And as I stare out at the sky with heavy lids,

I think I can hear the steel of stars

Singing silent night to eternity.