Under the red winter sky,
children gather and clamour for answers.
Will it snow? Will it lay?
An old moon declines to say,
his night light dwindling.
Early next morning, the tree
adorned with gewgaws,
falals and fairy dust, swinging free,
piled higgledy piggledy underneath,
draws a gathering of gleeful children
eyes wide in wonder,
clamouring for answers. Is that for me?
Written, a little late, for We Write Poems and the last verse chopped off two days even later! Although it completed all the words, it was a pompous and unnecessary ending to the original poem.