Christmas is near and in my memories I can see
snow on the ground.
In my memories I can feelthe cold winds from
the North bringing Jack Frost.
Indoors it was pricklingly warm, as Mr Jack
was slowly pulled from my toes and fingers,
his harsh claws raking over my skin.
Water runs down the windows in a myriad
of tiny deltas,
and my nose fills with the fragrant scent
of stew cooking.

It is nearly Christmas.
The trees are up and well festooned in garlands
and baubels.
Our fairy watches over us and we are all
dreaming of that festive morn.
Strange delights are waiting, and soon
the whole family will be celebrating.

It is nearly Christmas.
But is it ?
Where is Mr Jack ? Why is there no
snow on the ground ?
The house is full of the void scent of
salad, not stew.
His roving eye watches over us.
His gaze is long and pure,
will He let us continue our ravages,
make our World endure ?