I listen to you speak of snow
and sitting by the firelight's glow
when all I want to do is shower...
I'm wilting like a half dead flower.
The temperature is rising fast
and I remember the dim dark past
when as a child in bed I lay
praying for snow for Christmas Day.
My prayers were answered once or twice
so I could play in the snow and ice
rugged up to my little nose
with cosy boots on my little toes.
Then we moved to the Southern hemisphere
where Kangaroos replace Ol'Santa's deer!
How strange to swelter in the sun
instead of having Winter fun.
But Christmas isn't just the weather
it's feeling good 'cause we're together
swapping gifts or cards and wishes
and watching the kids as they do the dishes!
Now, as I review my childhood list
I think of all the things I've missed
like rising costs of heat and power...
I'd rather stay an Aussie flower!
I listen to tales of a Christmas bright.
At four pm here, it's almost night.
I look out on a frosted land
And dream of the sun and lots of sand.
The snow is so deep and seems pristine white
I almost think that it is its own light.
The fence top is gone, a mountain of snow.
I don't have to check, it's twenty below.
The kids are out back, they're building a man,
Flinging snowballs at friends, as only kids can.
Their fort is of snowblocks and not quite done
Their laughter is telling me they're having fun.
The air is crisp, each sound seems too loud.
The moon is hazy and shrouded with clouds.
The trees are all ghosted, all covered in ice,
In its own way, it looks pretty nice.
There's skating and sledding and making snow men,
And running inside to get warm again.
There's hot cocoa and shortbread waiting inside.
We'll sit near our tree, decorated with pride.
My coat may be heavy and my boots like bricks
And I may rant at the neighbour's kids' tricks.
My hands may be frozen, round a hot mug curled,
But I wouldn't trade my White Christmas world.