Christmas Past

Stockings unpacked, the wild tumble down the stairs 

in early morning dark, is last year’s memory. 

Family presents opened and exclaimed, riots 

of tissue paper, ribbons dangling like expectations 

not quite met, are scattered in corners, awaiting 

an indulgent parent. Breakfast dishes washed 

and put away, music stilled, second cups of coffee 

growing cold      

in the moment’s quiet.

And then, linens pressed creamy flat are smoothed

on the lengthened table, flowers and candles at the centre.

Light catches newly polished crystal goblets, 

silver gleams beside the Christmas crackers.

Pairs of tiny salts and peppers are filled,

cranberry sauce in cut glass dishes and pickles,

fetched from the sticky cold room crock, nest

in silver bowls unwrapped from their blue cloths.

Waiting

scents the air,

keeping company with a faint sniff of pine.

Heirloom ornaments glint among the branches,

tinsel twists slowly in moted beams, moments’

caught in the sun slanting through the bow window.

Roasting turkey drifts into the afternoon.

Women newly bathed and aproned, laughing,

break the stillness. Children are called to peel vegetables,

slice lemons, plate the beaded butter.

Soon

ice bucket and water jug filled,

they will pass the drinks, 

with salted nuts and olives and

little hot pastries filled with yearly treats.

And then        sitting

beside the tree, listen attentively while

a fondly smiling aunt endeavours 

to bridge the gap (uncles don’t seem to bother)

before dinner.