All thought of love died with the cold wind
blowing suddenly down Green Street
chilled blood and bone
painted pallidly this duffle shrouded face
in the shop window
with the stacked Christmas cards and tinselled
leaves of holly and the waxen berries.
Cold sin stole like adrenalin
in arteries fouled with icicles.
My steps went echoing three stories high,
clutched at a toenail moon
pinnacle perched on a rooftop.
The tears came on a wind's sigh,
O, my dear shop window
those tinsel days as dead as Santa Claus!
All this has gone on before....
"Beauty is so rare a thing
so few drink of my fountain."
The chill wind blew, the echoes strayed
the big bronze bell of Sydney brayed.