Once I was small, Christmas trees were tall. Now I am tall (well almost) Christmas trees are tinsel, made in China. Elegantly they sit on window sills, fairy lights flicker fade. Christmas is blurred, fluidly changed. A God’s birthday counted down and god managers preach intolerance, separation. Weak hymns in churches half filled and midnight mass at ten pm. Carols sung in languages foreign. Drunk, feasting. Gifts purchased, wrapped, waiting. Santa on the horizon. Who draws his sleigh – camels, buffaloes, kangaroos? Solar panels, no sooty chimneys. Here comes Santa, oops he … She. Small. Points digital camera at me.

December pleasant enough. White orchids still bloom. Red rose hidden in green foliage. Happy bamboo sways bulbuls tweeting love. Excited sparrow tribes hop about, magpies quarrel. All search worms slumbering hidden in twigs. Three sandpipers in from the beach not far. Doves strut about. Concrete homes trap winter. Indoor chill registers 8c. No central heating or other. Cheerful, summer windows built for breeze allow gales seek shelter. Pullover, jacket, socks doubled, feet on antique Tibetan rug. Hands in cut-off gloves, fingers numb with cold tap on keys. Ideas flow leisurely, phrases, sentences, paragraphs. Short stories blossom like the winter garden.