The January Santa

Past midnight she came, darkness providing refuge,
The stairs grumbled and sighed in protest.
Now the stocking hung, she wistfully watched
The dying embers take their last breaths.
Death called out like a panacea, however,
Reconciliation lay in Time's hand alone.
With morning came, excited voices 

And the pitter patter of little feet.

The stocking discovered, dolls and cars and trains

Held tightly in each little hand.

Unnoticed and unobserved, the little girl held

The discarded stocking close to her little heart.

By the Window

Sitting by the window seat, the sun shining on my face, I wanted to tell someone how the clouds reminded me of cotton, of perhaps what heaven looked like, of how I wished I could jump from one to another, of what I dreamed and thought about. I wanted to explain how the light shining down on me made me feel different, special, how that one cloud looked like Dory from Finding Nemo, how whenever I travel I play out the scenario of a plane crash in my head, how I've felt the last few days, my hopes for the next few days, my inhibitions and worries, how my heart is breaking and no-one knows.

Sitting by the window seat, I also realised that I had noone to tell them to.