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Reflections on Branwell Bronte 1 Christmas Service

Shadows bled into his sight.
Blizzards without weight entered the room.
There was no sense of time.
Hemmed in below lowering skies
he turned, heard his own sigh
inside the gloom
Beyond the window snow drops
furnished a muddy bank.
He remembered Christmas flowers,
church decked in holly.
Declarations of thanks.
Dank smell of the vestry
Him standing by the oak door
then removing into cold morning air
as the service began.
He had made no promise to stay
but felt the weight of guilt filter through.
It held sway as he watched a woman
caught in cold sleet.
Skirt trailing wet ground
stained up to her knees.

14 Jan 17

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