This is the wrong Christmas
in the right place: mistletoe
water there is no kissing
under; the soused holly
of the wrack, and birds coming
to the bird-table with
no red on their breast. All
night it has snowed
foam on the splintering
beaches, but the dawn-
wind carries it away, load
after load, and look,
the sand at the year’s
solstice is young flesh
on a green crib, product
of an immaculate conception.
by R.S. Thomas (1913-2000).
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In the Dark 