Hungover in the cow-fresh air, they leave their friends
to stuffing frosty cars with leftovers and sleeping children.
He wishes that they had a dog, or tartan travel rugs.
The pub is mulled and mistletoed,
aglint with copper pans and holly.
The Sheffield Pipe Band skirls, unlikely, by.
He heaves her uphill to the torpid castle:
kisses her against the wishbone walls,
trumpets blarting up through crow-filled trees.
They march down singing Wenceslas.
This is going to be a fruitful year,
he thinks. Or better than the last.