Who looked for luck but no slither
of moon peeped. Just hard specks
like dust as dusk enclosed eternity.
It ran with great gold coins
for wheels and one white mare
that moved with feline fluidity.
Outside a big, rambling house
this vehicle stopped. Noticed
yet unnoticed a figure still watched
as costumed Santa stacked
coloured boxes and windows
were festoons of smiling children.
The boy looked down but no four-
leafed clover grew amidst
frost-blacked, strandy grasses.
Then the horse, glowing in lamplight,
ears like witches' hats, except ivory,
neighed, scraped a soft hoof,
seemed to nod his way. Done,
the carriage moved and in a swirl,
was gone. But before him
something shone. A horseshoe,
bright, fresh, luminous as a new moon.
And the stars warmed, reformed.
Mary Charman Smith