Irish Dance

A Dream of Christmas

In his garden, under white roses, an old man
Confused by the seasons, cried ---
' For my last Christmas a dance of children only.
One will be masked as a snowflake,
One as a star,
One as a red bead of holly,
One as a dove,
One as an ox housed from sun and furrows,
One as a surging-crested-breaking-wave
--Masks of all natural things
I bid to the feast,
All but the mask of ore, that has withered
History to the root
And withered me, hearthstone and heart'.

Time opened, It covered the sleeper
In whitest drifts.
  At the garden gate
A black boy stood with a golden apple.

George Mackay Brown