The messages shorter, less sincere than in previous years,
the black ink used reflecting his mood
as his pen dragged laboriously across snow white Christmas cards,
each glib, festive greeting sealed with kisses
from lips chapped by sorrows cold winds.
His favourite time of year now dreaded,
bad enough one empty chair at the table.
They'd not discussed who'd bless, carve,
it was as if not talking might somehow make it easier,
instead the opposite,
trepidation and a wishing the day over filled his heart.
And then tears, tears that fell sorely, unashamedly, freely,
as the last card read before not writing
"To a very special father at Christmas time "