Winters crisp chill
Blankets the air
As the dustmen know that Christmas is at an end
A thousand discarded trees
Queue up in family rows
Waiting for their final journeys end
An irony that a season of giving, gives away so thoughtlessly
Joggers dodge a forest of dead bracken joys
Following their breaths with every footfall
To a destination that will never be found
Children huddle together as they trudge to their great educators calls
Never really learning what is more important than repeated word or unimaginative conclusion
Curse the free thinker
who, like the Christmas tree, is a novelty not to be had all year round
And so the sun rises in that never ending cycle of begin again
A subtle reminder that there is always change
Something the humble Christmas tree is resigned to know