I've measured out my life with Christmas trees

Unlike old Tee Ess, who - dry and bent and wild

And in mild old gent distress - knew The End

Would come soon (note those capital letters)

And measured the messy passing of his own Days

Far better (as we know) with coffee spoons.

 

Yes, I've measured out my life with Christmas trees,

With cat-scratched baubles packed tight away

With lights re-ravelled and wonky angels removed

And pine-needles finally hoovered and fake snow

Sorted, all the while holding pained post-morta

(Or whatever the plural would be) (Tee Ess would surely know?)

 

So I've measured out my life with Christmas trees

And into the loft on soft January mornings

I've shoved joy and warnings the Buddha was right

(Time's day will turn its alchemy to mind's night)

And it dawns on me -  each and every time -

There are fewer Christmas trees ahead than behind

 

But I've measured out my life with Christmas trees

And soon I'll know why (though I'll soon forget) -

That, in the now-come, now-gone unwrapped unrhyme

Of the same old unmet wry-faced New Year,

As we carry these moments gently down the stairs,

They may be (Tee Ess, would you agree?), may be all we really need.