Sitting at my desk,
cream-coloured wall light illuminating the words in my notes,
loose sheets, coloured pens, bits of jewellery and cable wires
strewn across the small rectangular work area
in an organised chaos only I can navigate.
As I sit here typing this,
I wish I were somewhere else,
perhaps in a cottage deep in a peaceful wood,
fir trees surrounding it like a warm embrace.
The well-kept garden is full of wild flowers that bloom in spring,
shades of magenta, violet and indigo will light up the porch like coloured Christmas lights.
Delicate petals that glisten with dew drops in the morning light,
the golden sun rays peeking from between the branches of pines.
Crisp morning air filled with the smell of the firs,
a robin sings and twitters as it settles on the cheery apple red mailbox,
a stark contrast to the white picket fence the trails neatly around the house.
The garden takes on a magical atmosphere come winter time,
as soon as the first snowflake lands softly on the red brick trail leading to the front door.
The wood looks like a pastry heaven with thick sugar frosting covering the firs and pines,
the resident fox's paw prints like a trail to a treasure chest dotting the expanse of white covering the ground.
Come Christmas time the front door will have a large pine wreath with a dark red velvet and plaid bow atop it, pine cones artfully placed within the leaves.
A warm fire crackles at the fireplace, casting a warm glow in on the plush maroon armchair next to it.
Christmas music plays softly in the background, as the party is full swing.
Girls in exquisite navy blue satin dresses with black velvet sashes, lace peterpan collars fluttering about their necks prettily as they run around the great Christmas tree with the other boys,
whose footsteps resonate through the cottage as their shiny black leather shoes meet the Persian carpeted wooden floorboards.
Their white collared shirts untucked from their forest green corduroy shorts, as little boys that they are.
