A Poem for February

The Christmas Angel

Abandoned to briars and dry grass,

she lay in a rain sodden cardboard box,

her wings a mess of broken feathers,

a single tear speck on her cheek,

her pearly necklace hanging careless on the

fading pink of her dress and white satin underskirt

collecting country dirt.

Yellow Gorse flowered above, its scent of coconut

too remote to gather into her shabby box,

thrown perhaps like litter from a passing car.

I wondered if I should rescue her but

Caution came between us so

I stood her upright to face the road

and kept on walking.

Next day, remorse found me

with rubber gloves, plastic bag and

rucksack to carry her in and once home,

her angel wings removed, I soaked her in a

bucket of warm water and disinfectant,

quietly pleased with my efforts. 

I kept her for a few days but

something didn’t feel right.

I hadn’t thought it through.

What if she was left as a memorial

like some folk might do.

I returned her to the country bed,

laid her gently beneath the gorse and

pledged to rescue no more.

She was just a doll after all, 

but to my eyes,

she was a Christmas Angel in disguise.

 

 

A Poem For January

Sometimes,

days are too quiet, too cold,

too frustrating to be interested in

anything much, except how I am

the only person I know having such

a miserable time of it, but I know

that’s not true, so I tell myself to

climb out of the hole of self-indulgent

pity, it’s time-wasting and the doldrums

are not where I meet any interesting

people, especially on a grey winter

morning when SAD syndrome threatens.

I will engage a spirit of cheerfulness

to light up my day, be eccentric,

wear the black velvet jacket with all my

vintage brooches on the lapel, ask the

cashier at the supermarket for a

six-penny stamp and one of those blue

air-mail letters that are also an envelope.

When I get home, I will make a pot of tea in

my Mother’s blue willow-pattered tea pot,

shame I dropped the lid and broke it ages ago,

I still haven’t found a replacement to fit the gap.

Sometimes, around twilight,

when the house is quiet and

my cat sits full stretch on my writing desk,

I hear the indescribable sound of his rough

tongue licking his paws to clean behind

his ears, when he’s finished, we listen to

small creatures that move through the

night garden beyond the window.

I mark the passage of the moon rolling a

silver thunder to lovers in a sky of dreams,

close my eyes in the far away music,

drumming to the beat of my heart.