The day before the abundance breaks,
I gather fallen plums and pick up
fragments of tinsel shed around the trampoline.
Preparing for an iso-Christmas we clean out
the fridge and I carry a tea towel full of leftover
vegetables to the compost heap.
Deep in the warmth of the bin, excess becomes
humus, steams and steeps in readiness for
next year’s garden. I have left
so much undone, have done so much I
ought not to have done.
Tomorrow’s mercies hang like
ripening fruit pulling down the bough
of all my drooping, growing days.
The Consolations of Writing 