‘Tis The Season
Christmas. New Year.
The stuff in between, and the stuff after.
It can be the most thrilling and the loneliest time of the year.
Saturday Before Christmas
On the way to the closest city
To conclude Christmas-related shopping
We stopped to marvel at
A slowly crisscrossing gang of paragliders
Wheeling and milling across the middle distant air
Bracketed specks, cartoons of surprised eyes
Buzzing random paths above the hill
The goats were unmoved by the
Aerobatics in the beyond behind
Idly interested in the promise of food
From this peering stranger
Walking back to the car
I found myself grinning
At a gaggle of dog owners
Each with an equally angry chihuahua
I mimed ‘quiet’ with a finger over my smile
To the delight of the humans
Infuriating the chihuahuas
Beyond measure
And they redoubled their frantic barking efforts
A corkscrew haired child at the head of the gaggle
Dogless
Glowered at me balefully
Christmas Constitutional
‘Wrap up warm,’ Aunt Mildred said, ‘It’s bitter out.’
So after her tinder-dry turkey
Doused with gravy, the only saving grace of which
Was its resolute lumpiness
And sprouts that had been simmering since September
They lugged a sullen and unresponsive spaniel
Out for a Christmas constitutional
On a Baltic beach with waves of iron coldness
Joining a small battalion of other small dogs
Dragging their frozen owners on leashes so taut
They could play them like guitar strings
If their fingers weren’t so damn cold
Twenty minute shuffle and snuffle there
Ten minute dash back
Back to the promise of a stoked fire
To defrost hot-aching toes
While Aunt Mildred snored, head bonelessly back
Oblivious to the Queen’s Speech
Aunty Dot’s 100th
‘Treat every Christmas
As if it were your last one.’
Her Aunty Dot said
When asked about the secret
To a long and happy life.
Once the TV crew
Were safely out of earshot
Hundred-year-old Dot
Hissed ‘I bloody hate Christmas,
But I can’t resist a soundbite.
There is no secret
To living past ninety-nine
It’s a lottery
You take a chance every day
And mostly, you’re a winner.’
The Last After Eight in the Box
Pulls down the collapsible ladder
Lowers the long box from the loft
Calls it the Christmas Coffin
Because it’s where the tree is laid to rest
Every Twelfth Night.
Takes the time to primp each snowy branch
Hanging every decoration with care
Has to be balanced, evenly spaced to
Catch the sparkle from the lights
Then sips a sherry and watches
‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ again
While scrabbling for the last After Eight in a
Boxful of empty wrappers
For which he can only blame
Himself.
Balloons
To say Papai was displeased
With the boy, would be something
Of an understatement - caught his
Dirty digits deep in the till drawer
But as it was the season of goodwill
To all - even the sticky-fingered
His punishment - condemned to
Spend the Twixtmas hinterland
Patrolling the tourist-filled town square
Trying to sell novelty balloons
Admittedly was less severe
Than it could have been
But the boy found himself dreaming
Every night
Of some unsettling scenarios
That he lost his grip
Of the unifying string and
His clump of inane inflatables
bumbled ungracefully
Into the ionosphere
With the boy standing
Slump-shouldered
Surrounded by bawling brats
Or that Mario and some Minions
SpongeBob and Sonic
Conspired and colluded
To escape or explode
And as soon as the first
Helium-filled bladder went ‘bang!’
Papai somehow knew
(Because Papai knew everything)
Then Papai popped into existence
Like a balloon in reverse
With a gas-distorted grin, he asked
‘Which one of your dirty little digits
Do you think you can live without?’
The boy proffered a pinky, but
Papai shook his back-of-a-spoon
Moon’s-a-balloon head, whisked
Boltcutters from his back pocket
With an illusionist’s flourish
And bagged the biggest instead
The boy woke screaming
Sweating and, gratefully
Counting to ten.
Changing of the Guard
Stuck in their Arctic garret
Like a thumb stuck to an ice cube
A solo candle guttering at its wick’s end
It’s only the hot flush of shame
At what happened on their watch
That colours their badly-drawn features
That keeps them pyrrhically warm.
They nod over at the fit young thing
Proudly woodpeckering the punch ball
In the bright loft gym
In the sleek new tower across the way
Knuckles taped and ready
Gumshield grinning unsuppressed
All eager with hope and ready for the big night
The big fight.
Perhaps a call would be good
Perhaps text a warning
Or more likely
Slink out the beckoning back door
Dragging a sad sparking scythe behind
Just like last year’s loser.
Day Before Twelfth Night
‘Might as well take them down today’
And despite the mutterings about bad luck
The balloons, baubles, tinsel and tree
Were all popped, taken down or dismantled
And packed away in the grey plastic skip
Labelled ’XMAS’ and stashed in the stockroom
Ready to fight another day. All except one
Red crepe-stained stub of sellotape
Stuck to the overhead office striplight
Just out of reach of even the tallest
Without the boost of the foldable kitchen step
(And honestly, who could even be bothered?)
Until at least Easter, or maybe Whitsun
When one of the cleaners stood on a desk
Against all Health and Safety directives
And gleefully disposed of the last lingering
Memory of Christmas.