It is December

December rises late and dark, and day
drags slowly out of night to dull
damp misery. We wait to find a lull
between the rain, and wonder why we stay,
when reason tells us we should go away
to somewhere where the days are always full
of sun and warmth, and where they always will
delight us with blue sky, instead of grey.

But there again, there's more to life than sun:
The warmth of friends; the beauty of our hills;
The cosy crackle of the winter fire.
There's something in the heart that feels at home,
And these count more than all the weather's ills.
So that, I know, is all that I desire.

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