There was a handmade cake on my table
and a letter with immature hand:

I start with this
but know that
whenever and wherever I bake a cake
you'll be in my mind.

It tasted not that sweet
I remember
and she was never to make another
in my corners of bitter December.

I have no other Christmas memory.

There couldn't be.

Passed  the  lake  last  evening.
It  looked  dark,dank  and  threatening.
In  the  fast  fading  light.
The  moody  mountains  stood  tall.
With  thick  mist  swirling  across.
In  ghostly  fashion.
A  complete  contrast  to  the  summer  view.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

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