Coo! Is this still going? Here's a couple of things I wrote almost exactly 12 months ago, then...

Warm Inside

The fire's hearth is filthy; the window boards are missing;
The bookshelves are not ready; some skirting boards not kissing
The walls quite as they should be. The chimney breast, its plaster,
Another coat of paint? Would not be a disaster.

Around the door there's plaster and paint that shouldn't be there.
Not there? A door that should be! The painted walls still quite bare.
Don't ask about the dining room (unless you'll give assistance)
The kitchen, a saga all its own, whose ending's in the distance!

And yet...

The house remains unfinished, the front room still half-furnished,
But here I sit on sofa new; of solid oak, well burnished.
A glass of wine (now beer), a pad, a pencil - I'm a poet!
(I'm no such bloody thing at all, I'm a wordsmith and I know it!)

But here I sit, scribbling doggerel verse, forging words to fit the space
Whilst gazing into the fire's coals, seized by the Muse's grace
It's hardly Wordsworth, Keats, I know! You all think I'm demented.
But it's cold outside & warm in here & I feel quite... contented.

Jack Frost
A tapestry in ice, unmeant.
(I don't know where the spider hid)
Greeted me yesterday morning
(There's eggs under a certain lid)

Slender, frosted, spiky, soft
(Surely all four can't be done?)
Graced my window as day was dawning
(Cold and misty, without sun)

Yesterday was minus six!
(But windless, therefore not so cold)
Today, plus two. Oh! Plus two more!
(Golfers weather, if I may be so bold!)

So Jack Frost's drapery was melting
(A constant symphony of drip)
A world of white, brief turned to colour
(But Jack has not yet lost his grip)

This night is the longest, Solstice,
(And Jack, for now, he still holds sway)
Tomorrow's day, though, will grow longer
(Spring! And summer! On their way!)

So though the world may yet stay cold
(Those eggs are in the compost bin)
The world still keeps turning, turning
(Next year - frosted webs again!)