A gloomy house sets the hill
fixed, steeper, yet unwinding a tone from maroon
to resist the premature dusk
the dark hollows of empty rooms
four blocks of solid night
hallway and stairs
which winter trees cannot pierce
to resist the grey and drizzle
Underwood, High Fell
an old quarry, a trough of leaves
above the tidal race
wishing for some clear summit or release
– to not be here
or to be here ever more.
Dropping away now, sharp, fast,
dangerous on fading brakes numbly grasped
horses clop from cobbled square hauling a pretty cart
through scents of woodsmoke and coffee, this tourist lamp
opposed from sky by boom of jet
bells from the priory and two pubs no longer derelict
flitting with half-term revenants . . .
who shift time on and skim the bay
thirty miles by road, only six direct
come into my parlour fly
no need to argue
the quicksand of Christmas is here, but perhaps
if you pretend enough, you can be happy?
It is the season to be merry
©
Lawrence Freiesleben
December 2025
Images: A Cumbrian house & one of Morecambe’s parlours
.