A poem:

February

You have to feel for February, the runt 

of Gregorian’s litter. Some way short of second best. 

Full of winter gloom. Feasting 

off lingering hangovers 

cast from late December festive frolics 

& midnight parties to celebrate

resolute sky-high hopes. 

Who enjoys Kale-monath?     

By the time it rolls round 

winter’s discontent 

has got way, way too comfy.  

Solmonath    (the mud month)     has little to offer

as the prospect of March 

hovers over the horizon, tantalising 

with spring in its step 

& the promise to fetch longer days.

Cosy cherubs cast a vote for February 

as their most desired month. Not an attractive proposal, 

unless           you’re a lover.

Because even the most affectionate of dates 

may exaggerate the disdain experienced 

when the postie delivers heartache 

instead of cards from Cupid.

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