The Gift
You’re outside the Post Office,
in an endless queue of tinsel
clad punters, all fake jingle
and ho ho ho, when your eyes
are drawn to a leafless tree,
its scrawled branches
black against the grey,
where cradled in its crown
is neither star, nor angel,
but a tiny moss-woven nest,
finely stitched with cobweb
and spangled with rain.
A fragile, unknown tree,
a tiny, absent bird, a nest
so high, you can only
guess the precious within.
As light fledges the leaden
sky, you search in vain
for a bright wing, a sign,
a guiding star, to carry
the unknown with you.
Hold it close for a day,
a week, to unwrap
on Christmas morning.