The tills are ringing out a merry dance

for the delight of times gone by,

Santa’s hat is being primed

and the decorations are all on high,

twinkling with colours, music and fun,

the adverts have started,

broadcast to remind of others,

of those living and those dearly departed,

yet deep down in November’s grip,

something feels wrong

the message is out of kilter

there is bum note in their joyous song,

the presents, the greetings, it all seems false

the communication that is loud and clear