words, raw and chaotic
spilling like an upturned toybox,
a riot of colour and shape and size,
waiting to be sorted, to be loved or discarded
and ultimately, reduced to black type on white screen.
the gleeful joy of the upended toybox,
now constrained by order.
who can say which is best to convey meaning?
This poem was prompted by the poem Hugh wrote that I read this morning, got me thinking what signals Christmas to me.
Raspberries and Strawberries,
picked fresh from the bush,
the smell of fresh cut hay,
on a summers evening hush.
A thunderstorm with lightning,
flashing in the dark,
the mouth-watering aroma ,
wafting from bbq’s in the park.
All of this says Christmas,
in the place that I call home,
my island state of Oz land,
what means Christmas where you’re from?