Sitting down to my Christmas card deadline,

I feel that I am writing back in time,

To country cottages in floating clouds

Which languish in a land behind the lines.

A place where lives stand still for one whole year.

Unfair, of course, although the envelopes,

Weightless, still shrug with resignation.

I take a breath. Perhaps it’s no one’s fault.

Unwrapping memories, I concentrate

On the postcodes, which at least have meaning.