We brought the tree down the other day, me and mum. The whole thing was horrible. As if this year could not get any worse. Now we have to celebrate Christmas without you papa. Both of us would quite happily skip the 25th of December. Though we would probably say that about a good many things this year. We wont see you on Christmas day, I can't even explain how much that hurts.

I am a big kid when it comes to Christmas even when I went into my 20s I still have the same childish habits. You won't have to suffer me waking you up at half 7 in the morning. We won't do our traditional waiting on dad game, while you spend a million years in the bathroom. Even when mum is already in the living room sat on the sofa and I am sat in my traditional place on the floor eyeing up the presents and spreading them out so it looks like I have more (embarrassed to say I did this last year: aged 24 then!).We won't do the dad's finally downstairs trousers and all stage, but then we are into the go and make a cup of tea stage. Even though you have just had one in bed. After the cup of tea, when you think we are just going into the opening presents level. Think again. Its not Christmas without the blasting of Annie Lennox's Christmas album. Which dad would then take his time locating. Finally the music is on, its time!

All in all dad as usual would be the last one in the living room. Though as I got older, instead of opening my presents straight away as I would have done as a child. I would pass presents to my parents to open first, they would open them one at a time. As we had a sequence; dad, mum then me. (founded by the placement of sofas in the room, as a result the leather sofa was undeclared dads and therefore nearest to me; seeing as I was closest to the presents that's just how it always was). I would get excited about what they have, especially if it was from me. I'm so glad I got to the stage in my age where I was thoughtful about what I got them and how happy dad would get if it was something he loved aka the Detectorists tv series Dvd collection from last year.Though it makes me unbelievably sad now. Now we go into clothes shop and walk past the men's section, even the LPs section in other shops, the fantasy collection of books...it goes and on and on.

Its worse now, definitely. Christmas is everywhere, I used to love it so much. Now I just want it to do one. I will try though daddy, mum is trying as well. We love you. We miss you more every single second.

There is a stranger in the wood 

Her white gown is stolen light 

Monstrous trees bathe in the reflection of her glow 

This is her might 

When the black hood of darkness 

retreats to shadows 

Owls lower their wise heads

The stag-lad kneels in homage 

Only old shape-changer,

Dancers beneath the stars and me 

stood as ice, amazed by her presence. 

She comes to claim on frosty nights the shivering spirits 

and millions of years of starry nights 

Of silent planets bathed in blue light 

the cold moonlight in the fields 

The breeze from a flying swan's wings 

The hush on a frozen lake 

The moon's reflection trapped in ice. 

I found this written on a scrap of paper in the drawer of the computer table, there are many more. But I wanted to write this one up. If you know dad very well it is not easy to read his handwriting, though it was more readable over recent years. This was written during his very joint handwriting stage, so I hope what I have typed does the poem justice and makes sense. 

On the back of the small scrap of paper written in small handwriting are the names of some of dads favourite bands (playlist for one of his compilations). It made me smile. 

That is what I would have typed if I didn't find another piece of paper further down within the drawer. From I can gather it continues the poem written on the scrap of paper, though I believe it was written later on if not a couple of years later. As the handwriting is much more readable and almost completely changed. From 'she comes to claim on frosty nights...' is the second half.

Snow Storm Buzzard.

Within a swirling snowy blizzard

A buzzard, on up-turned wings,

Alive with frosting snow

Circles majestically above the rough pasture

Below the Edge. How he appeared to revel

In the wild winter landscape, the distant trees

Stark and skeletal, the sedge icy spikes,

The seeping springs black serpents in the gullies.

How he wheeled and soared and merged

With the landscape like some great moth

Leaving the comfort of its hidden world.

But this magnificent bird stalks death,

And in winter there is plenty.

The chill is deep and biting,

Harsh and cruel; even the air seems brittle.

Ever round, ever round, he turns the landscape

As if winding a toy. He mocks the storm

By embracing its malevolence,

Tearing the frozen silence with it talons.

Then he turns for the Edge and the moors,

To the vastness of the frozen earth.

But I know he will return,

For he is the hunter

The harvester of souls

The ever-present opportunist.

Peter James Allsop