a white dove
perched on the tip of my
blue and gold tree—
a magpie warbles
from the hills hoist

the fire-truck
sounds a hooter—
no bushfire
just the seasonal
lolly-run for the kids

holly and the ivy—
golden-haired choir boys
sing on TV
a wattlebird
ruffles the grevillea

the tell-tale grunt—
we call the children outside
in the dusk
to hunt this sleepy
Christmas Eve koala

Santa on the TV news
in real ice and snow—
tonight
it all seems somehow
less of a fairytale

the eight-year old
not confident to declare
her secret knowledge
goes to bed early
…just in case

a quiet drink
beside flickering tea-lights
and brass reindeer
he eats the plated mince pie
remembering to leave crumbs

Christmas wrapping
into the recycling bin—
for a moment
I consider saving
the gift tags for next year

after presents
we unwrap our pale
bodies and purge
our souls in the crisp
morning surf

rain for Christmas
but no one grumbles—
thinking of farmers
and rivers now
flowing with goodwill

ham and turkey
fruit salad and wine—
some of us wearing
these papers hats
look much older this year

card games and
another cup of tea—
at this rate
will the fruit cake
last until January?

© Julie Thorndyke

First published:  Hecate 2010