Dusk is the time of Santa Claus
Autumn briars where he dwells
He stalks among the dying branches
Lurks about the dampening dells
His smock is velvet moss
Trimmed at cuff and boot and girth
With silver from albino foxes
In his eye there is no mirth
For three chill months he prowls
Paths less trodden and canals
Where alone to see his passing ponder owls
And with him comes the frost
His hand a mutant knot of antlers
His neck a twisted blackthorn stave
His feet a crab-claw root and branches
His hunger a black wave
Santa’s little elves he calls them
Saint Nick’s little treasures
How quietly he parts the brambles
To regard his dainty pleasures
Dwelling in October briars
In spills of russet leaves
At the fringes of the woods
He haunts, he takes, he breathes
And year on year by Christmas time
He’s big-bearded fat and jolly
He’ll visit homes and drink your wine
Spill blood red drops, on dark green holly
TWISTED::COLON 