the shrouded morning
streaked with wet naked branches
all dripping upwards
I rang my mother the other day who was telling me about the Christmas card my brother had sent her. My brother for a few years now has been making his own cards, not with cut-out 3D cottages, some decoupage and a bit of glitter, but ably assisted alone by MS Publisher. The results, though heroically attempted, are never very successful.
‘Why can’t he buy one from a shop, like everyone else?’ my mother asked, in the rhetoric tone of voice she uses which makes me suspect she’s asked this question of herself aloud whilst alone.
‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘as cards go, there’s nothing wrong with them, but it’s not the sort of thing to send on special occasions.’