Disunity, with scapegoat

She says I'll roast in hell for not believing
the things she does the way she does. She says
my feigned agnosticism is deceiving
myself, not God, through whose mysterious ways
I'll learn too late that sulphurous fire and worms
that never die are my eternal fate.
She relishes the telling, as she forms
each loving syllable from finest hate.
Her husband offers hope: I needn't worry.
His Jesus has already paid the price
for all my sins. His Jesus seems a furry
comforter of sorts, cozy and nice.
Between a grievous torture and a sumptuous
reward - which Christian is the more presumptuous?

Christmas, White of that ilk

Is is, not very, but still noticeably, a white Christmas here in Malvern. It was apparently a very white December 23, but I was still in Doha where it was decidedly grey and dusty. The mild thaw on 24th was handy because it meant the landing at Heathrow and subsequent train journeys were more or less smooth.
Now, here's the Christmas plan for this blog. I'm going to get myself a slide/negative scanner and start digitising all the thousands of old slides and negatives from way back, that haven't seen the light of day since nineteen-oatcake. A few of them will feature here. Or at least that's the idea.
Merry Christmas everybody!