You talk
in reminders
of spring,
through branches
that have never heard of you,
or seen the colour green.
Running in empty,
the bright in store,
what you'll all be;
a supreme full together,
good for each other.

Although your departure was imminent
it still smashed
more than the bottle
of bon voyage,
fragility sank in too;
the days
and nights
without you.

Rather than write
a Christmas card to you
I wrote this for you.
And that's not because
you're not
on my Christmas card list,
you are (lucky you)
but instead
I wrote you this.
There are folk on ma Christmas card list,
my Ma is on ma list,
cos whenever I'm home
Ma makes me feel like I'm missed.
And friends who see me through fog
when I'm caught in the mist.
And a card for Father
who explained the wow in tryst.
Other friends get a card on the list
for their music and bliss,
I suppose causing bliss gets on the list.
And as you've caused bliss
you're on the list,
for;
the joyful daze in days,
you sometimes made Sundays sun days,
with talk of ace
and gave
a slight gaze
at
synchronistic blue,
top you.
This is not write in Christmas card,
it's writing for you.
Merry merry Christmas
merry Christmas
to you! ***

You're as bright
as a big
beautiful wall,
not solid
at all;
an enchanted vast
master class
that marks a phase
of amaze;
a light pass win
at begin.

In the shape of your movement
my tummy is stormed
by jingles
and foxtrots,
it leaps a ballet
as you punctuate
air
with glorious panache.
It always tries to run everywhere
when you
come into view;
all the tumbling roams
at the slight tour of your smile.

For seconds
there is a purpose
to everything,
and all that matters hums
with a breezy intensity,
the coincidental collision clockwork
murmurs
right on time;
and all the charms
and all the chimes
are you.

When I used to be congested
I coughed
and spat
with all my might,
but at this moment
my plugged drains
with a flick
of your hair,
no more need for splutter chucks,
all types of plague run off
when you swish with
all of you.