Christmas
cards tell the weather
report,
the deaths and
illnesses,
borne
by red robins wreathed in
a
gleaming sparkle of snow, gritty to
the
fingertips, caught by the light, the handwriting
fainter
and fainter until it is
no
more
still
others enclose photos
of
grave-faced children, familiar
yet
unfamiliar, mouths silent,
name
and number on their
reverse
as
we stir the batter for
the
Christmas cake we make
wishes,
always wishes, how
wonderful
the things the mind
can
conceive.
the
foreign taste of dates a
meaty
sweetness, the
custard,
hot, poured over
pudding
and Christmas
yet
to come
the
bulbs burning on
the
tree are hot to the touch,
the
tinsel a magic of silver
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