Why wait? the supermarket asks
(you know which one) when puddings
ooze expense and calendars for Advent
spill indulgence. Down the street
festive lights jitter and twitch.
Each day is inching shorter.
Wood pigeons strip the hedgerow holly of its red.

A carol service sings in minor keys
of patient yearning; in its shadows
another calendar reflects
the start of its own year
where waiting is a season of beginning.

D A Prince

If you have any thoughts on this poem, D.A. Prince    would be pleased to hear them.