A comb of wisped and dappled cloud
floats on a bellowing winter sky,
a trademarked early December blue.
The silhouettes of birds that skim across it
are dashes of a signature in blackest ink;
the days are a slow fade to ending,
before the cycle starts again,
our journey once around the sun.
For all the bad days that the year has suffered,
nature is neutralising; two weeks now of blazing sunsets
and mornings frosted like a Christmas cake.
The brashness of the skies say: We're sorry,
we didn't mean for it to be so terrible this year.
From January through June to now, the things you've seen
should be works of dystopian fiction.
By way of apology, please accept this blaring series of
morning skies that give you heart-ache,
crisp daytimes cold enough for scarves but
mild enough to keep at bay those astronomical heating bills,
and trees laden with red-and-golden offerings of goodwill.
You kept going through the sadness and the darkness,
and we are forever grateful. You stuck with it,
and we know how difficult that was.
As an additional token we're willing to offer you
lustrous sunsets every night,
so fill your timelines and newsfeeds with your best shots,
you've earned it.
We hope to see you again next year.