Pleached Limes

 Pleached limes 

In the dog days numberless

Christmas gone, the year not yet expired

December chilled and bit

feet and fingers, stamp and clapping 

breath of dragon, huff and puff

some small snow fluttered, failed to settle

no shine of frost on vines in solstice sun 

though Jupiter and Saturn very nearly met, conjunction 

bright as Bethlehem’s. 

And while the world was drear, this rump declining tail-end time 

plague year dragging dreadful, Marley’s ghost in chains 

revolting spectre, cancelling the feast 

we split and stacked our log pile neatly, under eaves 

reached hands towards the creak and crackle, winter’s glamour 

and solace found. 

The gardener’s pleached limes, rimed, 

out-stretching, insta photographed 

two word title, luscious 

beauty pouring like a balm.

30th December 2020 Hounoux, after Monty Don

No quiz? What a swizz!

 No Christmas in the quiz? What a swizz! 

Awake in the black, early morning 

(shocked by a shout, my own, don’t ask me what about) 

a creep of guilt begins to churn, turn and grumble 

mumble, cuss

tonight’s creep, unable to sleep 

how could I fail with the quiz? 

What a swizz! 

No Christmas for the chums in their Santa hats, sat 

waiting for tinsel and sparkle and fun 

for Dancer and Prancer, reindeer everyone

for rhymes about puddings, or why it’s ‘mince’ pie 

for Wenceslas’ page on the feast of St Stephen 

snow falling fast so it rhymed crisp and even 

the carol they sang in English and German 

those men in the trenches first Christmas in hell. 

We could have had questions on biblical stuff 

Joseph and Mary, that journey was tough 

the star in the east and the names of the Magi

the oddest of gifts and why they were chosen 

who wrote that poem- how the Wise Men were frozen? 

Stringing together these thoughts in a verse 

not soothing the conscience, it’s making it worse 

What fun we’d have had if I’d only remembered 

what all were expecting the eighteenth of December. 

So this is to say ( if you’re still bearing with me) 

I’m sorry for failing to season the quiz 

the fault is all mine and most surely not his. 

Maybe reschedule for feast of the kings? 

Though Friday’s the eighth, see what 2021 brings?  

I see through the window the sun rising in splendour! 

( Shall I insert a line here that praises transgender?) 

No, time to give up on a night with no sleep 

and pen  you this poem instead of count sheep. 

Thank you all dearest friends for our Fridays of fun 

They’ve been such a tonic, Covid life-savers every one.