There are two falls of snow, crisp after wet.

In being here shows me how poor I am.

I watch the snow, yet how rich it is set,

Nature still has reigns in this Celtic land.

I eat local fruit and enjoy the trees,

Pigeons on high, ivy cups filled with snow,

Ivy has no scent on a winter breeze,

Yet is Myrrh and Frankincense to bestow.

Pigeons sit like lords where they do not sing,

Feather strong wrapped, and exposed to the cold.

They dip and they rise in a sifting wind.

High up they go, in a way so bold.

Like the first fall of snow, Santa is no more,

Pigeons are like us, they are rich and poor.

– Angela Porter.