There is no snow this Christmas,
no fantasies or fairy trails.
Damp pavements and fallen leaves,
and cold reluctance from the breeze.
A solitary jogger,
wearing pink and moving slowly,
glancing at a passing cyclist,
who doesn’t pause to wave.
Everyone, like the season,
slowing to a hesitation,
lost between their self and others;
waiting for the world to stop.
Grey magnolias reflect
the flat sky, in buds pointing
upwards, quietly ignoring
the mood of the day.
I will focus on these, although
there is no snow this Christmas.