Out there beyond the torpor

Past the grey, cold December light

Other people rush to be involved

Get infected by the seasons’ promise

And find them-selves snarled-up

In traffic. Impetuous to please


And so they are gone

Wrapped in their own little bubbles

Imperilled coloured baubles

Infused with fractious lust

Aspirations bloated by want

Adrift in false desire


I am witness. Quietly

In a harbour of my own

Less the glitter

Less ardent

But floating nonetheless

In perilous ennui


But they have a point

For high days and festivals

Deserve a sincere approach

And I am not fervent

In any of my preparations

Perhaps less qualified for the gift

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