Painting (above) by Simon Pemberton
I will not try to cheer you with the never-quite-night, bright Christmas light announced by the endless Christmas tunes in shops.
I will not say there is twinkling tinsel wrapped around branches to cheer you, or white crisp clear air, biting sharp in your throat.
I will not describe the joy on children’s faces when the snow arrives, as they stoop to scoop large handfuls, gasping how cold it is, even though they know.
I will not tell you of the sun’s watery appearance Casting wide strias, across the sky: pale lemon, grey, and rose, offering hope as it hovers, momentarily mocking through branches which winter has stripped most of life.
Stunned by the beauty of a single ray as it bounces bright white off the snow, I will not try to furnish your face with a smile, or a look of contentment.
But when from the dank darkness comes the promise of spring; a cerulean sky; the sound of bird song as they flap on fences, or porches to waken us from the long, dark days and night,
I will knock at your door behind which you sit
by the fire,
Taking your hand , together we will go on in to the