Inbetween years (called: now)

Christmas at home.
Surprisingly new and different it
felt this year.

Spent with the sort-of In-laws,
while cooking German food, reading
Céline, and thinking back and forth
in not too helpful (rather: destructive)
thoughts about future.

Why is it always future that frightens
me as soon as I come to
a rest, just like I am supposed
to do now, here, at home?

Returning to the UK in a week or so
troubles me, today. Could somebody
please put time to a halt?

I am by no means calling for
an inversion of the second law
of thermodynamics, as did
the protagonist in a rather
hard-to-judge novel I finished yesterday.

Just give me a break, maybe a bit
like the brave Bill Murray in Groundhog
Day had it: A little loop in time.
These days in Germany, inbetween
years, with companions of highest
spirits around, would be just right
for such experiments.