Clouds move at a different pace.

Clouds move at a different pace.

There is a hierarchy,

With ill-formed

Wispy, misty twirls,

Scudding hurriedly along,

Brushing the skirts,

Of the slow moving

Heavyweights.

Birds swirl,

They seem to know,

And put on a show,

Before moving out.

Ahead of the storm

And the seasonal rout,

That brings misery

To Christmas, begins

Its annual reign.

As suddenly,

It is winter again.

Bad news stories

Have soon arrived,

To fill the news this festive tide.

Rubber-neckers,

And headline checkers,

Indulge in a bout

Of schadenfraude

At another’s expense.

They mean no offence,

Is what they say,

In their own smug way,

Tipping a wink

Whilst raising a drink,

Glad to know

It is you,

And not them,

Who might need a bed

In Bethlehem.

This Christmas.