The Christmas wind horse

The robin had guessed prints in the snow were not those of the wind-horse, an incarnation of the last breath of a bearded man that once covered the earth like a shroud. Hail hammered breast make it's ascent up the cathedral pane, figures in the glass have a gaze that is forever cast, like that of man who cannot see beyond the time worn out ornament Christmas has become. The stallion contained every wind and breeze that had ever blown, the little bird carried every carol that had ever been sung, but one. The horse carried the robin on Christmas eve as he dreamt about hearing the final words of a cipher on a cross, then a dream about passing over two thousand aimless steps in a wilderness. Woken by persistent glassy mists, the robin sang with the only taker for midnight mass, strange scarred male, together they created an incantation, a spell as winter gusts stroked midnight's bell.