Death at Christmas

The tree is up and the lights are on

The glow is bright and warm


But I feel cold



The tree is real, not a plastic job


The colour is green, but parts are yellow


and the ferns are falling



The glow may be bright


But the lights are not real – look closer.


See the icicles hanging



The tree is green, but not forever.


Its roots have gone


It is dying



Icicles melt, but the moisture is too late


The tree is brown and dry – the carpet is wet –


the dampness spreads



All is dead.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool


Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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