Jenny Chantler p.1

Sonneted Christmas

Cock Of The North

The Wilderness

Sonneted Christmas

We're raised to think that this should all be joy.
Twelve days of laughter rushing through the door,
Not threading up the chimney like a boy
With sooted head and feet both bruised and sore.

There is no longer comfort by the fire
When broken homes split hearts like chestnut rinds,
And coal face smiles distort to those of liars
That wheedle through the bare boned watcher's mind.

But in the chilling ash can stir a sound,
The smallest sound of all, the still small voice.
And if the bellows hang there and still pound
There may yet be a reason to rejoice.

As rising puffs of notes create a score,
They bring to life a carolled song once more.

Copyright © 2009 Jenny Chantler
Cock Of The North

Although it makes me glad to know
You’ve found a mound on which to crow,
A flock to manage gamefully,
A place to strut, a chance to preen,
Your climbing spurs sliced up my breast
Until my sweetness failed at last.
Now, spitting out humility,
I wish your cockerel R.I.P.

Copyright © 2008 Jenny Chantler
The Wilderness

I found a man to walk towards
For all the rest of life
Across a vast and treeless plain
But with a starlit sky

A man to lose and find again
To kiss hullo, goodbye
To sing duets with though apart
To flame and chill my brain

A man to talk to in the night
Whose voice could keep me warm
Someone to dance for in the day
On even a stony floor…

But then I feared these visions
Were mine alone to keep
That he’d not take the first sharp step
Along a path that steep

But I was wrong
And he has limped
Up over rocks with me
And we have reached the first plateau
And we can see the sea.

Copyright © 2008 Jenny Chantler

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