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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