I think sometimes, this season, these holidays seem so tightly defined that you can’t breathe and the walls close in on us.  So here’s a poem about desertion if you’re just the tiniest bit glad it’s all over.

Peace and love to you all.  Bx



The days between my equinox
and their New Year
hold the past and the unknown.
Our house is a stagnant limbo
of too little sleep.
Our hearts are too fat,
too tired.

My answers lie outside,
in the desertion of planning,
answering the need
just to walk; aimless.
An animal desire
to escape the trap;

Near our house the woods
are manicured, tame;
a child-friendly theme park
half-honouring violent nature.
In this England
only the weather
remains punk.

With coats and pyjamas,
a smear of toothpaste;
we are heathens.
Glorious, gay and wild.
But last summer’s dens
are now stripped naked;

Only the holly remains.
On her spiky leaf-faces,
rain beats irregular time;
both plain-chant and trance.
It is at once ancient
and too funky
for today.

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