Christmas Trees have taken over our Pavements, Creeping out under cover of Darkness, Flood Warnings, Dragged out out of bed to sober Up, unwanted guests. By morning they have Succumbed to frostbite. Shedding needles like so many Fingers. Toes. Walking back from the brink of Shrivelling, we step behind a Dislocated limb, allow a woman to move past us, Uninterrupted. Thanks, she yawns, Her breath a Fog. Steaming like Warm breakfasts. Tea. Toast. We nod and pretend to examine the tree, Stooping like Undertakers on The Job, Measuring a corpse left out in the rain.