17th January 2011

It's 17th January,
Bare branches on each tree.
The air is thick with winter fog,
I cannot see the sea.
There's lots of cards to open,
They're piled up on my knee.
There's lovely lemon drizzle cake;
A cup of Earl Grey tea
To chase away the winter blues,
At least to some degree,
For someone's having a birthday
And I think it must be me.

poem © Celia Warren 2011