12th Night

[hallaig]

12th Night


All the needles are hoovered ,
the decorations that the paper chain gang
slaved to put in place pulled down,
and the festivity, all the hoo-hah,
is gone in a few seconds, pffff,
the walls and floor and ceiling
cold and clean as January again.
Later, the kids look for evidence,
glitter below the settee maybe,
or a crumb of carrot the reindeer left,
as though they need to prove the whole
thing was not after all a dream.
The wreath, they shout, and run to see,
but the door is bare, only light rain on it,
and they settle into life again,
the prospect of birthdays, holidays to come,
and then its only me left, behind the dustbin,
staring at another arthritically curled
Christmas tree, wondering whether
to save that thread of tinsel
burning in the evening streetlight,
a last ember still in the heart of the pine.

[blank|verse]

that thread of tinsel
burning in the evening streetlight,
a last ember still in the heart of the pine.

We get a magical image at the end of the poem to take away with us, hallaig, but I'm afraid I found the rest of the poem a bit humdrum and all too prosaic. Still, the post-Christmas family scene is well-evoked and the poem doesn't deserve to go without comment.