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Cold Frosty Morning 146/365 | by RufusZulu
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Cold Frosty Morning 146/365

My father played the melodion outside at our gate;

There were stars in the morning east; and they danced to his music.

Across the wild bogs his melodion called to Lennons and Callans.

As I pulled on my trousers in a hurry I knew some strange thing had happened.

Outside in the cow-house my mother made the music of milking;

The light of her stable-lamp was a star and the frost of Bethlehem made it twinkle.

A water-hen screeched in the bog, mass-going feet crunched the wafer-ice on the pot-holes,

Somebody wistfully twisted the bellows wheel. My child poet picked out the letters

On the grey stone, in silver the wonder of a Christmas townland,

The winking glitter of a frosty dawn. Cassiopeia was over

Cassidy's hanging hill, I looked and three whin bushes rode across

The horizon - the Three Wise Kings.

An old man passing said: "Can't he make it talk" -

The melodion, I hid in the doorway and tightened the belt of my box-pleated coat.

I nicked six nicks on the door-post with my penknife's big blade -

There was a little one for cutting tobacco.

And I was six Christmases of age.

My father played the melodion, my mother milked the cows,

And I had a prayer like a white rose pinned on the Virgin Mary's blouse.

~Patrick Kavanagh, in “A Childhood Christmas"


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©TownCharacter Photography, 2010

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Taken on November 16, 2010