In the countdown to this Christmas,
in the mighty preparation,
the shopping rush, consumer crush,
I had the odd sensation
of hanging grim to fortune’s wheel,
defying gravity,
so thank you for the chance to land
beneath your Christmas tree.
For today I see the little things
that slip beneath the wheel,
take time to find the detail,
the care behind the meal.
And when again I venture,
I’ll walk slow, with a smile,
remembering how good it feels
to go the extra mile.
Left prone in the market place,
I have recently succumbed to
minor shopping, relinquishing control in pursuit of joy.
Post operation Christmas,
I may require resuscitation by stringent economic measures.
Saved in a matchbox
tenderly unwrapped today:
our Christmas angel.
In the heart of party season, on reluctant retreat from a soul freezing evening, a pub customer skirts the herd, and is driven deep into an enclave of unsociable seats.
Head dipped, the lone sheep sips lycopene laced with tons of tobasco, and window watches a few frozen smokers, summarily excluded, kiss fire sticks with blue lips between gastronomical delights.
Like the wiles of a fox
or the workings of clocks
Like a hidden agenda
or secret contender
I will sit, whir and tick
Like a kiss for a frog
or a driver and cog
there’s a place and a time
and I’ll know when it’s mine
I will wait, cogitate
Let me be, then you’ll see.
