A White Christmas Poem by Mark Heathcote

When the last of the rowanberries get eaten
it got said that truly the winter began;
invaders sit on TV aerials of ermine
pinkish-brown birds from as far as Japan.

With a Jaunty crest and a fine-silky plumage
exotic looks elegant beauty the waxwings,
have travelled-from-Siberia-to-forage
harbingers of a harsh winter headwind.

Plague birds with feathers shining bright like fire.
Seek the tree protector of malevolent beings
the magical tree, the rowan of red and sapphire
arboreal with yellow band tail markings:

Waxwings are a sign of approaching darkness
folklore will have it said; a white Christmas.