No Snow in Sight

No snow in sight.
For Christmas that just isn't right.
A warm south wind blowing,
increasing my anxiety and worries.
I think of what you said,
words, just something
tumbling through the air
around my head.
Nothing good ever came on a south wind,
including you.
It's too late in the season
and we're in for a blow.
Somehow my heart feels
the change coming,
from cold to colder.
You laughed at me,
until I was the sad joke
that made you turn your head.
In my drinking days,
you left me,
standing spraddle-legged
on the upper deck
of a London bus,
singing Christmas carols,
like a drunkard,
or an old fishing hand
on the deck of
someone else's
wave pitched lobster boat,
singing to the gods of the deep.
You ain't here, and there's
no snow in sight.
For Christmas that just isn't right.