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.