The glitter flew through the sky, sparkling ,reflecting in his brown eyes, open in pure joy, the landscape in its muffled costume, bounded by skeletal trees. Soon, gloved,wrapped and ready to go, rolling the snow into that character from his imagination, he’d be here, throwing, ducking and rolling, and after, toasting his toes against the roaring fire he’d made before, back home.
Winter’s joy, bounding in his heart, the wealth of family, friends, the joy of giving, receiving, the fellowship of people, churchyard, tombstones topped with white wigs, the sky open wide, yes, he was there,even if the scene was half imagination, half from the whisky in the brown bag. He sat, in the graveyard,echoing back the 60 years, before age ran its tracks through his face, thinking about success and failure, love and loss, beard stiff and frozen, hat from the charity bag, clothes worn and stiff, tied up, Christmas parcel,with string. The last sips would make sure of it, he’d envelope himself , searching for the solution in the bottom of the bottle, like a child searching for the age of their friends etched in the glass mold of their drink glass at lunch time.Holly and ivy, mistletoe were all around this scene, in this winter’s graveyard, where one more lonely man would be found, eyes froze,wide, empty, beard stiff as death itself, lost, forgotten and excluded, enemy to himself, worn low through failure, sipped through to the whisky of the soul. The animals dare to move in, the crows and the magpies, rattling over their Christmas lunch, pulling his fingers like crackers, wearing his clothes like party hats.
Buried in absence, forgotten.