Mournful Morning Poem by Andy Brookes

November and I am cross, yes, cross for already the forced jollity of Christmas is upon us.
shops full ofuseless presents that will be put into cupboards and quickly forgotten, if not the disappointment they engendered.

My friends are calling me scrooge, after informing them that this year no cards will be forth coming,
my money instead going to charity.

The morning is mournful and I mourn the loss of faith, hope and charity, bemoaning their replacement by greed, consumption and waste.

I cannot see any warmth through the morass of tinsel, maybe its flashiness an analogy for the hollowness of the season and I wonder where my joy of Christmas has gone?