Rehabilitation

Every time John Bull brings the holly Out of the woods I go where my poinsettias grow merrily To see the fire glows Red like blood in leaves defying The winter's coming and the cold Every time a spruce, pine or willow Is cut down to carry shards of sun Or rewrite the history of the cross I wander from home with heavy sighing Torn up by the forest lost To keep its pride each winter's blast And I go the rocks to see below The sea's white fury crash In scowling anger Sweeter than the bells jingling by stores The carols mingling Love with trade and vanity I want something more A little purer than all commerce creed I want the scent of sorrel dripping From the kitchen's eave The baker's barters stirring And the old katacu smoking The prepared fish and meat O not for the feast as you supposed But for mother's presence In the first season of her absence She hung poinsettias And brew and roast and bake While she sorted drapes and curtains out And sang the alto happy carols As she designated us to our task Ah Christmas was her presence here Nothing more I go to the shore to give my wounded soul some rest While parching for the milk of happiness