After Christmas.

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After the rude warm lights are gone and sumptuous glitz is fled.

What in the name of sweet St Stephen are we to do stranded in Europe's northern climes all winter?

Dear Father Christmas, please spin me southward, To some, any, lapis lazuli lapped isle.

Where the salamander sits serene on warming stone.

Where the air runs thick with spice and sun. 


◄ The Curse.

Islander. ►


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