Gathering Holly

On a December day
Under a sky of silver marmalade,
We went to gather holly.
The air was cold.
The river ran in a brown study.
In a lopped hedge
A little bird moved, tentative.
Bubbling starlings
Clothed a bare treetop.
Over sleeping woods the rooks
Like fragments of charred paper
Drifted to rest,
Their slow harsh cries
The very voice of winter.

Presently along the river walk
We saw the hollies,
Clear–cut in dark and scarlet,
Each tree a rooted, berry–burdened
Christmas–tide.