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
towards 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 in 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 again to play.
The wind is cold ... next year is far away ...
the creature's begging. Why not let it stay?
