A whiff of winter in the air,
It’s the first day of December, I’m aware -
Is the weather intimate with the calendar,
The way it’s announced the onset of winter?
We’re done with autumn, I know,
For the X’mas decorations are in full flow:
Tinsel and holly and glitter and red -
They’re signaling a birth and an end.
As each year, I wonder at this time:
Where exactly did it go, this year of mine?
I’d finish a book, become a better mother, writer and wife.
The book is done, the rest is same ole myself...
A constant work in progress,
A year older, wiser - perhaps?
For I do know this much -
The wisdom of age has less to do with the passage of time,
It is, instead, what I did with that time.
Eventually, in the great crucible of life,
In that long walk home that we call life,
Love is the arbiter of all our acts.
Was I loved? Did I love well?
Did that sentence convey what I meant to say?
Shouldn’t I be more patient with my daughter every day?
If, at the end of a day of writing,
I still have nothing I’m happy with,
Surely, hubby can be spared forthwith,
My tetchy, grumpy hedgehogy-writerly being?
So, come December, I welcome you!
You’re my chance to renew, regrow and revise.
I am mine to make over and over -
End-of-year, you're my saviour!