Swept in so dark, on a tide of raw emotion
Kept at bay by pharmaceutical potion
Winter chilled days
Where even now the black dogs starts to call
Who knows what state of mind may yet befall
Nor even a drop of snow to lift the soul
No robin red-breast here in Christmas role
Cold, wet sheen.
Note made in journal
To look at days as these not in despair
And recognise that pain is spread unfair
Hope springs eternal.
©Joe Wilson – That black dog…2015