12 Twelve

A bone-deep frost
Bites under leaden, scudding skies, fleeting brightness
Torn away,
While midnight buskers amplify the crowding revellers
Rejoicing, celebrating
In December’s long dark northern night (of souls);
So habituated
Only eyes not hearts can see or tell the difference;
Random welcomes,
Tasters for the longest night that beckons, offering
Solstice frenzy;
When memory of what’s missing would be chancy for survival
Of the pack.

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