It was the first minutes of the morning after.  
The feast of Stephen boldly trod across the threshold
and waded through the leftovers
of Christmas delights and indulgences,
the echoes of family festivities,
and the discarded wrapping
still clinging to twists of Sellotape.  

The delights repeated,
the echoes faded
and all the discarded
lay deep and crisp and uneven,
even as we followed the heat
of the good King's steps,
into the cruel cold,
seeking the blessing of fresh fuel
for the wider feast ahead.

this city was ours
the trees the streets the places the stars the clouds the sun
all of it was ours

we made our own landmarks
we climbed mountains and built bridges with our love

but those bridges burned
and the city went up in flames
and those mountains turned valleys
and the clouds turned gray

Too nimble for sluggards to swat
Flies will gambol when it gets hot.  
Don’t bother to flap.  
You’re too slow to slap
That buzzing, tormenting argonaut.

River rock, smooth and cool
Glistening in the midday sun
A testament to time and strength
Beneath the rushing waters run

Carved by centuries of flow
Each curve and groove tells a story
Of the world's relentless dance
Of nature's boundless glory

I pause to touch your ancient surface
Feel the weight of your solid form
And marvel at your steadfastness
Amidst the chaos of the storm

River rock, you stand unmoving
A symbol of resilience and grace
A reminder of the beauty
That lies within this wild place

The summer brings on buzzing flies.  
Those whirrings around ears and eyes
Strum lullabies that make
A sleeper **** awake
And aggravate miserable Julies.