It rained when it should have snowed.
When we went to gather holly
the ditches were swimming, we were wet
to the knees, our hands were all jags
and water ran up our sleeves.
There should have been berries
but the sprigs we brought into the house
gleamed like smashed bottle-glass.
Now here I am, in a room that is decked
with the red-berried, waxy-leafed stuff,
and I almost forgot what it’s like
to be wet to the skin or longing for snow.
I reach for a book like a doubter
and want it to flare round my hand,
a black letter bush, a glittering shield-wall,
cutting as holly and ice.
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© Bridget Whelan
If you want to use any of this material contact me and there is a very good chance I will say YES.
However, if you just cut and paste into your own blog or whatever and pass it off as your own then there's a very good chance I will find out. Don't fall into the trap of thinking the internet is so vast and expanding so fast (note the fancy internal rhyme)] that no one will know.

love this! first time I’ve ever read it
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Glad to have brought it to you. It’s very special
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Absolutely love that poem, thank you 🙂
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Me too! He got me with the opening line.
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