Boxing Day

I've got skyline envy
pumping through my vagabond veins
and my train of thought
is scattered
and fraught
with summers and winters
and inbetween dreams.

It's Boxing Day
and I'm being strangely
well behaved
though a tonne of trifle
beckons
and the ciders chime out as I open the fridge
to force feed myself
salad.

I'm thinking about first times
and last times
and past times
as I cram
Christmas ham
into my mouth

feeling a bit
defeated
a bit trapped in the patterns
stitched up
sewn up
neatly

(it runs in the family)

but promises are made to be broken
and doors are closed
only to be opened

again

unexpectedly.

This time of year
brings that repeated heated symetry
and the thoughts in my veins
turn anxiously
to the people
still cutting down trees

amongst them,
amongst the axe carrying,
chainsaw gripping,
sharp word weilding

is me;

dragging an old
rootless
barely decorative
sad collection of sticks and leaves

to pin shiny things on
and pretend
that it's some kind of deity.

Perhaps promises are unnecessary
and
'first', 'last' and 'past'
just a literary menagerie
of beasts
that
need to be
set free.