Fireside reflection one winter evening

I am sewing. I wonder whether it will

be of some comfort to know years hence.

The hours spent by the stove till

this record is shepherded towards present tense.

 

First a sweatshirt, then a blanket to pullover

the broadening shoulders by the fire side.

Each stitch a tie that pricks our regret over

a loosening grip; each badge a source of pride.

 

And tomorrow’s tomorrow, will they see

the same pangs or remain blind in slumber

– just as their forebears be –

until loss and longing fuels their hunger.

 

 

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Still Christmas

No silent night, no sugar coating, or gloating

of a picture postcard experience, transcending

the realities of making do and mending.

 

Never mind fairy tales of then and here and now,

never mind the absence of sand or snow, still the cow

and sheep and the wayward herd needs tending.

 

Let not the cold and damp dampen our hearts,

let not the early starts dim our view, or darken our parts

in this season. It is still Christmas. Peace.

 

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