The year draws to an end with a momumental movement of plates.
As I walk along streamers-littered asphalt,
Others, elsewhere in the radius of destruction,
Suffer at the wrath of a levelling force.
Sixty thousand lives is sixty thousand too many.
Time and again we are reminded
Of our relative place in the scheme of things.
*
This Christmas I didn't cook a feast or drink copious amounts of wine.
Instead I ate obscene portions of ham and mash,
And danced the night away in cyan beads.
I am happy. And thanks to all of you who have made me so.
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