12-27-2014, 03:32 AM
Under assault from the constant mizzle,
sodden moss falls in sullen clumps from the thatch
and is re-homed on the artificial Christmas tree,
hung with fat balls and peanut strings.
The tree, once green, now bird shit and leaf mould encrusted,
lists under the weight of years of abuse and neglect.
Pine needles prick my feet, as I reach for the blinds.
In the flickering fire light my eyes linger on the fresh gingerbread
shapes and other festive makes that adorn the real tree.
It twinkles, but the tree looks bare.
The collection of salt dough creations made over the years,
has been finally tossed. Left in the box last year, even four feet of cob wall
could not keep out the creep of decay; they just simply melted away.
A loop of jolly tunes and Christmas hymns filters through my mind,
replayed, time upon time, layers of emotive thoughts,
conditioned and positioned into a perfected image.
I am quickened, but there is no birth.
Under the permanent drizzle of drifting dust, I sit and quietly sip
my cup of tea. Behind the blind I hear the sound of Blue tits as they fight
and red breasted Robins making proclamations of war and great pain.
In a nest at the back of my shed, the stray cat has had kits. I feed her
every day. Talk to her, try to entice her to stay and let me touch her;
If I push too hard the kittens will be lifted and moved beyond my reach.
I see and hear the news, but never really understand.
Come the twelfth night, the swags, the wreath and the tree will be taken down
and consigned to the fire, which will smoulder for many days to come.
But the “bird tree” will remain until the rain is less persistent, less cold. The peanut
angel with still be seen; spreading her stale manna and left over fat offerings
upon the twisted wires of Christmas past. And If the tree gets battered by a storm,
it will be re-established with a large rock placed strategically at the base.
Eventually, it will be dragged, complete with moss and bird shit,
back into the barn, where stray kittens can hide beneath the brittle branches,
a wren will make a nest of dried moss inside the coils of the outdoor cable.
Come next December the tree will reappear; brilliantly bright with fake lights
and unto us another season of artificial grace will be established,
or perhaps I will find a rooted tree to plant for the birds instead
and that large rock... I might just stand upon it.
(Oh dear it looks like I have a bad case of christmasitis...sorry about that).
sodden moss falls in sullen clumps from the thatch
and is re-homed on the artificial Christmas tree,
hung with fat balls and peanut strings.
The tree, once green, now bird shit and leaf mould encrusted,
lists under the weight of years of abuse and neglect.
Pine needles prick my feet, as I reach for the blinds.
In the flickering fire light my eyes linger on the fresh gingerbread
shapes and other festive makes that adorn the real tree.
It twinkles, but the tree looks bare.
The collection of salt dough creations made over the years,
has been finally tossed. Left in the box last year, even four feet of cob wall
could not keep out the creep of decay; they just simply melted away.
A loop of jolly tunes and Christmas hymns filters through my mind,
replayed, time upon time, layers of emotive thoughts,
conditioned and positioned into a perfected image.
I am quickened, but there is no birth.
Under the permanent drizzle of drifting dust, I sit and quietly sip
my cup of tea. Behind the blind I hear the sound of Blue tits as they fight
and red breasted Robins making proclamations of war and great pain.
In a nest at the back of my shed, the stray cat has had kits. I feed her
every day. Talk to her, try to entice her to stay and let me touch her;
If I push too hard the kittens will be lifted and moved beyond my reach.
I see and hear the news, but never really understand.
Come the twelfth night, the swags, the wreath and the tree will be taken down
and consigned to the fire, which will smoulder for many days to come.
But the “bird tree” will remain until the rain is less persistent, less cold. The peanut
angel with still be seen; spreading her stale manna and left over fat offerings
upon the twisted wires of Christmas past. And If the tree gets battered by a storm,
it will be re-established with a large rock placed strategically at the base.
Eventually, it will be dragged, complete with moss and bird shit,
back into the barn, where stray kittens can hide beneath the brittle branches,
a wren will make a nest of dried moss inside the coils of the outdoor cable.
Come next December the tree will reappear; brilliantly bright with fake lights
and unto us another season of artificial grace will be established,
or perhaps I will find a rooted tree to plant for the birds instead
and that large rock... I might just stand upon it.
(Oh dear it looks like I have a bad case of christmasitis...sorry about that).