I’m waiting for Christmas,
And it isn’t much fun!
I’m told by my mother
There’s loads of things to be done!
Like helping her forage
For holly, ivy and yew,
And decorating the house
With more than just glitter and glue.

I’m waiting for Christmas,
And I’m like a coiled spring!
I want to turn cartwheels,
To dance and to sing!
This is a holiday
Made for the young,
When candles are lit
And door wreaths are hung.

I’m waiting for Christmas,
And it’s as tiresome as math,
Which has always turned me
Into a real psychopath!
I want to sing carols,
I want to run riot,
And live for a week
On a rum butter diet!

I’m waiting for Christmas,
And trimming the tree,
I want to sneak just a sip
Of my dad’s best Chablis!
I’m waiting for Christmas,
And presents galore,
Oh, say it’s tomorrow,
Don’t be a bore!

I know that this is an enormous great toque*,
And it makes me look just a trifle baroque,
But I feel one must always just play the part,
If you want to do something with passion and heart.
Yes, I’m a pastry chef extraordinaire,
Scattering flour most everywhere,
This might resemble a rolling pin,
But it doubles as my teething ring!
* toque = chef’s hat

Photo may be copyrighted

A foggy day
Like a blank canvas
Almost bare branches
With the odd leaf
Clinging tenaciously
And me
Observing

We are slaves
To the shopping trolley
Maybe that’s why
It has a mind of its own
We are prisoners of the barcode
Which is incomprehensible
And sheds little light on the matter
We are held captive
By our desire to own
To belong
Photo may be copyrighted

A clear blue day
And the sunshine
Full on
Burnishing
What leaves remain
On the tree
With liquid gold
Like a halo
A sunburst
Of joy.
Photo may be subject to copyright

This splendid world of indigo,
Is backlit by a burnished glow,
That burns like gold across the snow.

These colours nourish heart and soul,
They make a complimentary whole,
They edify, excite, console.

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The world has woken
To pleasing blankets of white
Everything seems softer
Gentler, less distinct
It has snowed overnight…

The last flushes of sun
Bleach across the road
And the signposts
Point the ways
Stark white
It is a beautiful sundown
In Devon
Photo: Anita-Clare Field

A river,
Early morning.
Subtle tones
Of pink, white and grey.
The world seems somehow
Muffled by
The first freeze.

The railway
Crosses a bridge ahead
But first it has to
Traverse metres
Of Autumn leaves
That have fallen
And resemble
A beach
Made up of
Carnelian
And other semi-precious stones

Photo may be copyrighted
Anita ta originally shared
Photo: Takahiro Bassho