So here’s a very old poem – you can tell it’s old because there is punctuation. I thought of re-writing it, but really can’t be bothered. The forecast is for a sunny-ish 25 dégrées so we should be able to have Xmas lunch outside.
In the early dawn of Solstice Eve
I rise, and go to a secluded corner
Of a nearby field, to my chosen tree,
Branches spare against the pale sky.
With care I tie small skulls, bird and rat,
The jawbone of a cat. A hare’s foot,
And feathers of crow, and blown gull eggs.
Around the trunk, thick candles of beeswax
Honey, red wine, and bread.
Sacrifice to the god of beginnings
The day before Xmas I choose
A young radiata pine from a pile
Outside the supermarket.
At home it stands in the sitting room corner
I add tinsel, gold balls, little white angels.
Connect up the fairy lights. How pretty.
Oh, and a star on the top, and a baby Jesus in a manger
To remind us what Xmas is really about.
And such a pile of presents at the base
How festive it all looks.
No, I don’t think Xmas is too commercial
It’s all about families and giving, isn’t it?
Christmas morning in the dawn
I see my festive baubled tree,
And in its shadow, there the spare
And ghostly branches, the skulls,
The wax candles burnt low
From that long, dark night
While we waited
For the light of the god.