Late December turns us round in time,
To review ghostly remnants of the past,
Years long in living, vivid during prime,
Now brief pale images that will not last.
December days, their evenings early dark,
Prompt us think of our long or lately dead,
Who never will again strike up a spark...
So shall we then look forward, what's ahead:
The future lives in fancy as a dream,
Unsure, unstable, insecure from theft.
What can, in late December, give us gleam?
What, if both past and future fail, is left?
In this dread month let's choose look neither way
But focus on what we have to do today.
Copyright © 2012 by Morris Dean