Winter Solstice

            The messages come early in the morning, 
by means of a dream 
(but young men have their visions), 
or struggle towards decision through a stream of indecisions, 
or real — or imagined — pain 
(the shadow of age), 
or thought of someone dying: they contain 
a warning 
insisted upon again and again 
in varying images lost on waking, 
though by retrospective strain 
in sum they seem 
a bone-shaking 
Totentanz of puppets on a stage — 
skeletons dressed out with ragged infelicities 
rattling the highways in frustrated rage, 
or groping about warrens of ruined cliff cities 
more fearful if buried under a forgotten dream
than when I remember their articulate story:
memento mori. 

            Christ rose before the light 
and with His glory 
harrowed, scarified, 
cleansed and clarified 
even these last obscenities of the night 
into the relaxation of release 
from anxiety, and the acceptance of His peace.