I push a seed through the dirt,

bursting the watery film of membrane

wrapped around the soil’s cranium 

with tendon-deep greed

and the strained color spill of

fleece white knuckles

digging for color 

hoping to swap samples of sap

for the gooey, numb blood 

of truffles and evergreens and gold

wanting to extract pine needles 

from the air to stifle my cold

hoping to find fir trees in 

the bleak dark of evening tar,

the air thick like molasses

in an absence of stars. 

Coats zipped up like chainmail

battle-armour to the throat 

composing the deepest melodies 

from my childhood and listening

out for the pitch of nostalgia in every

ringing silver bell note. 

Hoping to secure smiles 

through frosted windows,

trap the happiness of families 

like a spider under a glass 

and protect it

cherish it 

like the first fresh fall of December snow

these memories bring me warmth 

like the haze from a fireplace 

in my own ghostly glow.

In the rosary of my memories 

now receding into soft spaces

in the back alleys of my mind

I am desperate to unearth them back up,

pull their roots free to turn back time

as the veins of adulthood bind with the earth:

a forced entrapment 

besieged with lies and dirt

and un-ripened fruit in a desert pot

dunked in shadows 

no sugar packets left in the cupboard

to accompany the ache and 

longing of sweet teeth

hungry bellies growl to be pardoned from 

these burdens

to have our chains undone 

link by link and yard by yard, for we 

never wanted to feel this absence,

refuse this inner truth to have been once sung

and all gone…

Oh, to be small and swaddled 

in a dressing gown 

eyes blinking back the daze 

of the glacier lights that 

zig-zag the tree,

heart light and excitement fierce 

in the embrace of 

Christmas Eve.

This was written by our contributing writer, Aimee Donnell.