Monday morning

On the 15th of December,
before leaving for the city
we look-in at the children
with dreams of Christmas coming round.

And the highway isn’t heavy,
the rhythm of life’s quite steady.
It’s the second Monday morning
before Christmas comes around.

There’s a plane cutting skyward,
a silver vision on my horizon:
of the city and its harbour,
of the years yet to arrive.

And there’s a meeting at nine thirty,
that sits softly in my diary.
It nestles there all quiet,
like a silent sleeping child.

Time enough for peace on earth,
for goodwill to all men and women.
For a quiet cup of coffee
at the café next to work.

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