But once a year ...
... it comes, with spiced breath, lugging golden bags
of secret foraging from High Street stores
with packaged cubes of gift wrap, glitzy tags;
tucks berried sprigs on pictures, over doors,
gilds cards with instant merriment, then makes
a forest emblem, shimmer-lit. It draws
snow scenes on windows, sprinkles icing flakes
of sugar on mince pies, shortbread and calls
a warning to the children still awake.
Throughout this night a frosted silence falls,
the shambling magic beast has done its trick
again. The waiting time is here and all
the sleepers are the same as minutes tick
toward the dawning of coincidence:
the morning walk in new scarves; kisses; quick
large slurps of sherry; crackers; grand entrance
of turkey to red faces, paper hats
and hopeful dogs. We join the the pretence
that goodwill in the pudding feeds us fat
enough to lose a careless bit each day
until December - when the pit-a-pat
of Christmas padding comes once more to play
The wind is cold, next year is far away ...
the creature's begging. Why not let it stay?
If you enjoyed this terza rima verse, you might like some of my other poems on my website Formal Poetry and other idiosyncrasies. The topics range from love, poems about gardens to science and gender relationships. They all rhyme and many are humorous. For my account of a Medieval Christmas (in prose!) click here. Have a good time, everyone, many thanks for reading my work - back to castles, CAKE and Roman remains in the New Year.
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