Poetry

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There are cards which arrive in November
from people I cannot remember;
there's Santa, an out-of-work plumber,
in stores by the end of the Summer;
and there, beside the tinselled tree,
stand fairies wearing PVC,
who underdress for girls and boys,
and overcharge for plastic toys.

There are bottles with crumble-cork stoppers,
and city street lights for the shoppers;
there are bonuses paid to the workers;
there's carolling, panto, and circus.
While mum prepares to mix her cake
Jack Frost puts icing on the lake.
The children pray and hope for snow;
a spinster buys her mistletoe.

There are stockings or large pillowcases
and children with wide-awake faces;
there's laughter, and eating, and drinking;
but I cannot stop myself thinking:
that here we are on Christmas Day,
(that's us, and gran, and auntie May)
whilst missing from festivities
is the One whose birthday Christmas is.

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