Christmas Eve by the river

The days are short, the light is low,

It bounces on the water like a skipped stone.

Ripples in the gravel become waves on a sea,

Casting shadows in lines, semi-regularly.

Reeds hang o’er the river, wheaten gold,

The mud gleams and shimmers and doubles each gull

Which waits while the tide returns and the sun struggles up

To a low zenith.

This quiet eve of Christmas is a short day

And a little work goes a long way.

Warm in the sun but cold on the breath,

The air catches clouds in mysteriousness,

Holding them still, for a moment, till they disappate,

And I, like the gulls, reflect and wait.

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