At Christmas time, there is the romantic notion that snow would turn the whole event into something magical. This year, it was too mild, and the prevalence of coughs and colds removed any chance of romanticism.

Luckily, a Flash Poetry prompt on More Writing set me thinking along more positive lines.

Written in the snow

While footsteps to their future
Were written in the snow
A signal of his love
Was the truth she yearned to know

Her heart pierced by an arrow
A shot that couldn’t miss
Squiggly shapes: S 4 A
And a solitary kiss

When more snowflakes fell that night
It hid his pledge from view
But held tight in his arms
She was sure his love was true

About four years ago, I found myself in a position where I could not afford to buy presents for my family and friends. Prior to that, like many people, I had spent a fortune each Christmas, showering gifts on all and sundry. My reduced status was a self-inflicted situation; I am not complaining. My two offspring understood and I can't remember the details now; I think we just agreed not to exchange gifts that year.

However, I still wanted to thank those who had helped me to survive the previous six months; the ones who had shown themselves to be true friends. I decided that all I could give them was my time so I designed a gift voucher entitled 'Dreams come true'. Each one was worth an hour and could be exchanged for anything they felt I could offer. I gave many of these vouchers to a few close friends and they redeemed them over the following months. I helped one to choose a laptop; another, I trained to use PowerPoint in preparation for a job interview, and so on. Later, I realised I would have given this help even if the vouchers had not been there to exchange, but these friends would not have asked me; they thought I was always too busy and they didn't like to bother me with their IT problems. 

Having got out of the habit of spending, spending, spending at Christmas, I find the gift of my time - and even more so, my love - is one that is appreciated. It is not a cheap cop-out option. To make time for someone involves caring enough about them and - somehow - that involves caring enough about myself. A win-win situation that I have not yet quite fathomed out.

One thing I can do, if I set myself aside enough thinking time, is to write a poem, like this one. 

To the one I love

Christmas is the time of year
For all to gather around
When we plan to celebrate
And life’s harmony is found

On this oh so special day
To lighten the heart in you
I offer you happiness
To make your wishes come true

My gift, to the one I love
Is power enough to cope
The wisdom to know it’s right
To greet tomorrow with hope

Yes, you can walk on the moon
Leap with the salmon upstream
Imagining tomorrow
When our life mirrors your dreams

So, take me, please, when you go
On this journey that’s called life
I’ll be your best companion
Far better than any wife

I’ll be always at your side
Still there, when you glance away
Smiling, when you look at me
And loving you, every day

Boxing Day: the sky is (was!) a postcard pink and the tide is high. After all the run-up to Christmas, it's like a wave has washed over us and we now watch it recede into the distance.

We bought enough food to last a fortnight and then were not well enough to do it justice. Yesterday's turkey was without the trimmings. In the fridge, unopened packets of chipolatas, green and smoked bacon and sausage meat for the stuffing that we did not make jostle with the untouched cans and bottles bought in for a festive celebration. We saw no one all day although we spent time talking on the phone to each member of our families, wishing them a merry Christmas and comparing notes on the contents of feverishly wrapped gifts.

Not wanting to share our coughs and colds, we confined ourselves to watching hours of TV and that had the desired soporific effect. Today, we are not much better: still coughing and spluttering.  However, we must rally ourselves to join the fun at the Yacht club - and to wish everyone a happy New Year.

This poem was written several days ago. Not sure where the opening line came from now. I think I'd heard yet another lie slip past the lips of someone who really ought to know better.

Truth

Truth is an ally
Treat it as a friend
No matter
How much you lie
Truth’s revealed
In the end

It need not
Be uttered
No need to shout
When put under
The spotlight  
Truth will out

It's been a hectic week or so. I came down with shingles (yuk!) the week before last - thought it was insect bites to start with but a quick visit to the docs confirmed the diagnosis I'd worked out through intensive Internet research. Stress induced illness. Whatever next! I finished a seven day dosing of anti-viral horse pills on Tuesday and the worst seems to be over. For a change, I have been as good as gold. Resting now and then even.

I hadn't scheduled time to be ill, of course. Instead, I'd organised a surprise birthday party for him-indoors on Friday 14 December and the show had to go on. Since then, we've spent a weekend with my kids and grandson. Oh and we moved home. As I say, a busy week or so.

I wrote this poem for him-indoors and embarrassed him in front of all his friends by reading it aloud at the party - just before they showered him with party popper streamers and the cake was wheeled in. 

Better than all the rest

The years have flown past
It seems so unfair
To witness a pate
Shining through your hair
As the days shorten
And patience wears thin
The run is a jog
When old age sets in

But you fall well short
Of six score and ten
And with such hindsight
It’s clear, now as then
The spring in your step
The gleam in your eye
Serve to remind you
Of good times gone by

May your next few years
Be doubleplusgood
Embrace every day
As you know you should
Kind, thoughtful, loving
With you, I am blessed
So, I raise my glass
To, simply, the best

Today's poem (this week's poem!) started life as a Flash prompt on MoreWriting, but I didn't have time - not even the 15 minutes allowed - with a clear head, to write anything. But it's crept up on me as the week has passed. Bit like the blow from the Queen on the unsuspecting drone. Bit like the shingles with which I am currently afflicted. One minute, I was fine; next minute ...

Circuitous drone

The circuitous drone
Takes the long way home
He avoids the beeline
To his honey comb

He flies from bud to bud
Buzzing with pleasure
Stuffing his probiscus
Deep into treasure
 
As he drowns in nectar
Swells to twice his size
Why can’t he sense danger?
Why is he not wise?

Such short lived excitement
Wherever he’s been
Won’t seem worth the candle
When stung by his Queen

Had to take a break. The mathematician in me would like to see the blog days sequential AND matching 24-hour slots of time in my life but this has proved impossible recently. Usual problem: I've taken on too much. Too much coming at me from all angles. Angry about a lot of things and trying to stay cool, calm and collected because other people need me to. Dare not write how I feel. Dare not write?

Well, today I did. Today's poem records how I felt going up to town for a meeting last week. It was a good meeting but a lousy journey.

Commuter death

Did you miss me?
Where did I go?
Lost in’t minefield
Quick, quick? No! Slow, slow

Headed for town
Booted, suited
A sinking heart
Rat race recruited

Lungs fit to burst
And aching feet
Surprise, surprise
Cheap ticket, no seat

Squashed like sardines
Stench of stale breath
Glad I retired
From commuter death