Eighty home-made
Christmas cards
for friends and clients
alike wing their way
across the world,
Russia, Poland,
Luxembourg, Italy.

Forty presents,
be-tissued, wrapped
with Father Christmases
on sleighs and in chimneys
carrying sacks, all
tied in (matching) ribbons,
cherry red and
snowy ice-blue.

Ill friends, one, two
three, visited with
cheer and gifts and
hugs (I didn’t lean
in too near).

Three family
dynamics
navigated, care,
honesty, tears,
grace and hope that
one day things might
change.

Four little niece-
and-nephews imagined,
researched, added to,
subtracted from, and
last-minute flash of
inspiration,
of course.

One carol service
invited to, sung at,
giggled in,
got distracted by
small children’s
wonder, and several
glugs of cooling
mulled wine in
too-warm weather.

Five invoices sent,
fingers crossed for
payment (no),
money switched
between accounts.
‘what d’you mean
five working days?’

One to-do list
half-crossed,
neighbours’ gifts,
tick, more ribbon,
tick, pine and
eucalyptus spray,
tick, but
packing, taxi,
picnic still to do
tomorrow morning.

One poem written.

My weariness
rests
on a bed of quiet
contentment.