poetry diary

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.

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Posted on Poets United and dVerse.