Tiny pine cones

Put your fucking Primark bags down,

I want to scream, 

and look at what the sky is doing!

I shouldn’t have come to the high street the week before Christmas. 

But if I buy everything online,

I’m not supporting my local high street.

But if I’m supporting my local high street,

aren’t I supporting this endless cycle of

consumerism?

Blankly dropping items into our baskets 

(real or otherwise)

like we’re on some dystopian version of Supermarket Sweep.

But with less inflatable turkeys.

Anyway, the sky was pink for about five minutes,

you’ve all fucking missed it now.

Maybe I should eat something.

It’ll have to be from a chain oh god. Guilt, guilt. 

My weekdays go like this:

Wake up. Wordle. Connections. Tea and toast.

Haul on my waterproofs and go out there,

whatever the weather is doing. 

I put on my gloves and turn on my radio. 

Today Programme, Book of the Week, Woman’s Hour. 

You and Yours, the World at One. 

Punctuated by birdsong, clients asking if I want a cup of tea,

the ding and scrape and cut of my tools. 

Boots on gravel. 

Flights fuzzing overhead. Geese if I’m near the beach. 

Slow time, quiet time. 

Work until the light goes. 

No wonder I couldn’t handle the high street the week before Christmas. 

I pick up handfuls of miniature pine cones from the roadside, 

stuffing them into my bag as cars whip past.

I get home and can’t get to my keys because every pocket is crammed with them.

This is very typical of me.

I make an origami box out of a gardening magazine,

and fill it with the tiny pine cones. 

I give it to the woman I love.  

She sends me a photo a week later, 

the pine cones have opened. 

Unfurled in their magic way, busting out of the box as popcorn might.

This calms my breathing;

the shoppers run about still, stuffing their bags with tat, 

not looking at the sky.