The twelfth and final month
The month that makes me yearn for my puddle soaked, mud covered, numbingly cold homeland.
The sun is beating down in the Southern Hemisphere:
Desert instead of snow,
Ocean in place of ice,
And yet it all feels so wrong.
I see cards decorated with snowflakes and polar bears in the shops,
It’s a lie.
It’s forty degrees and the sweat is dripping down my knees.
My complexion has always been as pale as snow,
But this is a step to far
I’ve turned into a real life snowman,
And no amount of festive cheer can convince me that melting in the sun is the way to spend Christmas