Eight months until Christmas
We are a third of the way through the year
Although I’m not fan of yule
This time always brings me cheer

I like a warm spiced cider
And fairy lights on the window
Snuggled up in a blanket
Watching the street below

I visit the market stalls
The smell of waffles and sweetmeats
Chessboards and Russian dolls
Laughter fills the streets

My hands bleed and my gloves itch
Cold makes my joints ache
I cry as I roll out of bed
The shower slaps me awake

I am broke as hell
My Name Day comes and goes
I start to feel anxiety
Snot drops out of my nose

Why is this season so magical?
Yet a time for such unease?
The truth is I wouldn’t change it
Now can I have spring please?