Orange needles

Remnants of a much happier christmas still linger in the back yard. The old tree - miraculously still wearing its needley coat, despite a year of wind and rain. Except the summer has turned to autumn - lush green transformed to burnt orange. It was a lovely christmas. Quiet, just him and I. Cats and a goose. Lovely goose, with its honeyed hide, cross cut, glistening in candle light. I love the fairy lights at christmas. I try to turn them on as much as I can - invite the christmas fairies in. But we're in the witching hour of christmas now. After New Year, before Epiphany. We keep them up because we can - but the spark has gone. We're keeping it together for the children.

There were no children this year. Maybe there never will be. This christmas the tree is just for me, and to freak out the cats of course. People have visited. But it's like Great Expectations - what was her name - Miss Havisham in her wedding dress. All dressed up for some grand event that never happened. Christmas day the house stood empty. Maybe the cats attacked a bauble or too. chewed on some tinsel. But the presents underneath had gone. And it was a sad echo of the days of love that we had here before.

Whatever next year's tree may see - here? somewhere else? Please let it be happier than this. Please let it be more real than this.