Pincushion

I came home from a weekend away

to find the town christmas lights up:

swathes of sparkles round the lampposts

and threaded through the trees.

The cold mornings 

taste like an ice cube on my tongue,

bright sun squinting in my face;

the diamond days are always the most

rewarding. 

The gloomy days are harder, 

the drizzle polka-dotting my glasses,

when it gets to mid-morning 

and still hasn't quite got light yet -

and won't before the evening

starts at four and

swallows up the day.

Heartache seems better suited to winter-

maybe it wouldn't sit as well in 

sticky heat, under blue skies, 

on a beach, or at a barbecue.

But if I bundle up in my coat and scarf enough 

perhaps my heart will feel better,

nestled under layers.

I look at tree decorations in shops

even though I won't have my tree up 

this year, or even be in my home.

I play Joni Mitchell's River, 

a holiday season sad cliché I know,

but I can't resist.

I start to resent how the ending of a year 

makes you endlessly reflect,

and the stabs

show themselves too keenly

on my pincushion heart.

I feel it all, though,

and carry on,

on those gloomy clouded days

as much as on

the lovely diamond ones.