Like spiky pom-poms
The mistletoe starkly hangs
In the old trees now
Gothic, like a morning star
Or flailing mace
Its lancet barbs threaten
While below, its syringe root
Blood-taps the living essence
From the tree, its host
In a deathly dance, yet
Before the festive chocolates
Have been snaffled from the tree
And the decorations, limp and languid
Are cramped away in their dusty closet
Once more
The mistletoe is ready
Visible, revealed, set
For its foray into the world of man
The Druid’s cure for any ill
To calm heart, or head or hand
To settle the cattle or bring on death
Or more likely, for the one excuse
One reason, one chance
To steal a kiss
And steal a heart perhaps
morningmistermagpie.com 