A drawing my friend Mia did upon reading this poem

December

The twelfth and final month

The month that makes me yearn for my puddle soaked, mud covered, numbingly cold homeland.

The sun is beating down in the Southern Hemisphere:

Desert instead of snow,

Ocean in place of ice,

And yet it all feels so wrong.

I see cards decorated with snowflakes and polar bears in the shops,

And yet

It’s a lie.

It’s forty degrees and the sweat is dripping down my knees.

My complexion has always been as pale as snow,

But this is a step to far

I’ve turned into a real life snowman,

And no amount of festive cheer can convince me that melting in the sun is the way to spend Christmas