December's morn waits quiet the kill,
a falcon keened in hovered skill.
A lark with haste o’er all that’s dead,
the way of sparrows who have fled.
The rising of the day anew
in early morning’s frozen dew.
Too late the wounded of the night,
held hardened stiff in winter’s bite.
A wolf alone, honed in, it prowls,
bone hungry pants of dripping jowls.
Hushed sikas snorting frosted air
and wary, too, the mountain hare.
A mob of crows stall into flight;
the fox shakes off the cold of night.
With time the mists of daybreak clears
into the Sabbath’s morning prayers.
Of those who rise before the dawn,
a breakfasted and kindling drawn.
The washing done, the fires stoked,
to hitching carts and horses yoked.
Let ring them bells, this day of rest;
all smartly dressed in Sunday best.
When brethren rein their horses on
to morning Mass, to hail the, One.
The preacher preached of glee and strife,
of paw and hoof, of death and life.
Of falcons brave, a sparrow's fear.
"'Tis why we all have gathered here."
-
Author:
Tony Grannell (
Offline) - Published: August 17th, 2025 10:48
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Poetic Licence, Teddy.15
Offline)
Comments3
I have come to expect only the best when reading your name on a poem. Tis like the name of any master of an art. Some true strike closer to the heart but all masterpieces in their own way. Another wonderful poem of times past and it brings nostalgia in many ways. Of days when I went to church and the family readied for the sermon. A beautiful write my fiend. Loved it Have a wonderful day
A lovely write reminding me off when Sundays were considered a special day and they meant something, when people took time out off the rat race for family , Friends, Church, walks in nature etc, enjoyed the read
What a magnificent metaphor, stunning, your poems are music my friend some of the best rhyming I've ever read. 🌹
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.