All the time in our world
This long night’s darkness kept out
As we sit by the fire, sparks cracking,
Clock ticking away the old year.
Quiet now for the unborn
In sweeps the pantomime dame,
Gross goddess of household compunction,
Belabouring us with her monstrous demands –
To conform, to give in and expend, to outlay,
To wrap up, come round to consume,
Be disturbed and time-trampled.
Thus turkeys come home to roost.
Then at last she desists and we sit
Listening to wind-wail and rain-hiss
Outside, as the year resists its own ending.
© Sue Lansdell