The Christmas fruit has gathered dust
for several days. The decorations
now lie trapped in empty biscuit tins.
Ten days ago
we laughed;
the glorious promise of a bright New Year
taunted our senses. Too soon
the balloons deflated
and we realised
that
time can't be measured by man.

I watch the TV in disgust
when adverts flaunt and complications
simmer under lies and cheesy grins.
Two feet of snow,
a draught,
and suddenly our problems disappear
completely in an afternoon;
all the things we hated.
Life idealised.
Flat.
Where is our place in this plan?