i organise christmas in the spirit of malevolent generosity
wishing nicaea had preferred a summer pagan take-over bid
what would have been so bad about crackers under a summer solstice sun?
i trip over tinsel trying to get near the nativity
turkey with a side order of guilt
am i the only one to worry that if the other book is right
that i may be toasting feminine isolated agony with my baileys?
still, i bathe in the glow of children
before the over-excited violence of the chocolate orange
i don’t care what they say, i bet it was bloody cold in the stable
in birth i bled everywhere but that first night
the best of all things past and present
new life new life
i bribe my new teens with promises of brandy
(i would have told the shepherds to sod off)
although we are all celebrating the baby
i only know how the mother felt
how i felt
how i feel still, in connected moments
and the tinsel, over-spending and noise retreats
and I don’t care what day it is
i just remember the night.
