Rain is falling,

stalling the year,

drear as an ending,

sending waves to break on muddy banks.

Thanks given for what?

Not good fortune or happiness.

Loneliness is the lot of many,

any port in a storm, they take,

make their own joy.

Cloying, the unctuous sweetness of the season,

reason departs and folly reigns,

staining the simple spread of pleasures shared,

snared, the quiet soul of peace,

fleeced, the unwary and naïve.

Eve of childhood’s magic feast,

released the genie from the bottle,

throttled the hen that laid the golden eggs,

begs the question, why all this pain?

Rain is falling.


Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

9 thoughts on “Eve”

  1. I don’t ignore their plight, but I also don’t ignore the light that many share within families – not necessarily out of any religious significance, in fact more for the traditions shared, in my mind.

    As for the rain, that seems to come from a bottomless well. I wish I had an solution for capping it. Each year brings new and more pain.

    1. So much of the tradition seems to be from the child’s perspective. As an adult I don’t get much out of it and the pressure to still churn out a ‘magical’ Christmas for adults who ought to be able to make their own magic has got tiresome.

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