Lone Mummer Approaching
Twelfth night, dead of winter. Across the reach
a stranger crosses, illuminating
his path with a dim pentacle of flame.
For a moment the wind flings back his veil;
but we cannot make out his face, shadowed
in the blackness, like an unnamed secret.
In the houses beside ours, the lamps are
darkened, the shutters closed, the curtains drawn
against this portentous visitation.
Midwinter stranger, approaching with a
measured stride, oblivious to the night,
to all except your studied resolution:
Pass on, let your shadow darken other
doors, spare this heart your cold epiphany.