In what is now the final advent week
it ought soon to be snowing: every year
the same old things are what you’d like appear
the most. No snow then - old hat, so to speak.
You light the sideboard candles once again,
and think of all you know who’re now deceased.
You’re waiting for some moment that’s been missed
while each day slots into a seamless chain.
Against your better judgment you would chance
to call to mind again what was not there,
since what is gone has depth, significance.
You put on music, drink tea, read a book
that you’ve already read long since, somewhere.But it’s all gone for good, slipped off the hook.