The last vestiges of lights strung across

Doors and house hang on defiantly

Trying desperately to deny the season

Of goodwill and merriment has ended

A gap of yawning wind and rain fills the void

As people nudge themselves around

In a kind of semi-conscious semi detached

Where am I

What day is it anyway

Where did all the bon vivere go

And the retailers brush away the corporate identity

Of almost everything being red and jolly

For a couple of weeks of jumble sale behaviour over

Carrots sprouts and parsnips all at fifteen pence a bag

Whilst a ghoulish voice demands

Will a member of staff attend the spirit aisle

Then blasted by overhead blanketed heat

It is back out into the wind and interminable rain

To be welcomed home by a stash of leftover mince pies

And those very rich and sickly chocolates

Which nobody can abide

A present from great aunt Maud

Who everyone suspects is more dead than alive

And T.V adverts trying to sell the idea

Of an exotic erotic bikini clad Holiday

In a place nobody can afford

So, you fall into your comfy chair

The one that has borne many seasons

Of previous campaigns

With a family size tin of quality street

Promising yourself

That all will be different next year