Onion Topped?

You are a host of frozen flames,

Yuletide candles choirboy-bundled.

Each a jewel fermented in fire, crystalized,

then Faberge-perfected.

Murano glass?

Paperweights?

More Tartar-capped and yet,

today with smudge-daubed clouds intruding

you seem truffled.

. . .

Close-mouthed cones

what secrets have you battened down?

Will they yawn open releasing seed?

          A kind of seed - souls.

Oh?

          The worthy of Moscow

          on Time's Last Day.

You mean the Romanovs, assorted...

pious saints,

great men and women of history,

the Muscovite elite?

          You were not listening.

          It is a flaw of Man.

Well, then,

at least tell me when it will all end.

          Not in your Time, moy drug*.

. . .

Then I shall return,

I yearn for a Moscow hushed by glittering white,

for endless nights,

colour brought to life by petaling snow.

There is too much hurried pilgrimage here,

too much rushing to drink weary dregs –

Vashe zrodovye! Your health! –

through upended glass view jaded city.

No.

Give me icicles on eyebrow and lash,

the Square near-deserted and Saint Basil's ablaze –

Christmas baubles in a frosted tree,

a far more poignant

epiphany.

*moy drug - my friend