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The weight of perspective

Can you smell the spice in the air,

Wafting along the fresh, wintertide breeze,

From hot, spiced drinks and baked winter treats,

That will warm you up from within?

Hear the elation of children,

As they prance towards the tinkle of bells,

Where they know jolly old Santa is sitting,

And will give them merry gifts for the year.

And hark the hubbub of grownups chatting gayly,

About sweet treats, parties, and wine,

As they saunter amongst the German market stalls,

Overflowing with European seasonal cheer.

Can you taste them, those mince pies,

Leaving hints of nutmeg and cloves on your tongue?

And the hot, spiced sausages with a zing of cranberry,

Washed down with a warming gulp of mulled wine?

Oh, what a glorious place to be,

Surrounded by good food, drink, warmth, company,

Amongst the busy crowd at a buzzing winter market,

It’s the best place to be when Christmas arrives.

But, step to the side for a minute to see,

What it would be like to be me,

Consider what happens when the perspective flips,

When the best place is also the worst place to be.

The same place you know the glow of warmth and light,

I know to be cold and dark,

And the smell of spices borne on the frigid night air,

Churns my ravenous stomach, freezes me ’till no warmth remains.

I’ll not hear the excited squeals of my child, this year,

Only her cries of icy starvation,

And for someone to give her a gift this Christmas,

A true Santa would need to appear.

The hubbub of the crowd before me,

Passes by without noticing a thing,

They’re loud, uncaring, and pretend not to see,

As they step over our place on the street.

I’d give anything for the taste of a mince pie,

Or the taste of anything at all,

And a sausage for my child would be the best gift of all,

With a gulp of fresh water, just so she can survive at all.

So, this place may be glamorous enough,

If you can walk amongst the lights over there,

But think about how much the view could change,

And about the weight of perspective.

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