Like a favourite vase,

that’s why, before he drowned, he uppedand shot the legs off dogs.

The eighth day of the week;the thirty-second day of the month;the thirteenth month of the year;The day that’s not on the calendar,Yet never off it in your mind;The loneliest day of your lifewhich everyone shares;The most unreal dayYet most real;The longest daywhich hasn’t ended yet;The day whose hurt you want to forgetYet want to remember…

(and I use the word loosely,as its public use is now disapproved…)A folded card: that’s four smallish sides to fill.An appropriate seasonal smile on Page One;Page Two requires nothing,blank but room for something else to sayin lieu of that family catch-up print-out pageyour children will have helped with; or maybe not..Page Three offers a seasonal…

and long may it bebut that would be an inappropriate dialling tone right now;quiet sincere OK?Youregard the world withaffectionit’s the first time I used that word in a poemand meant it.Affection.I hear the angels murmuring it among themselves.

as if they are the most loving friendsthat you could ever haveand, miraculously,there to help you in your hour – no, those vital minutes –of your need (and ours) , with every skillthat human beings can deviseto save their fellows;if they were angels,could they do a better job?and today, if we tried to thank themon…

was plaintive. And even afterwe’d swept them all up andfound homes for them,bandaged their paws, andgot them down from the treesand chimney-stacksthere were stillpoodles in the street.