The tree is smaller this year:
those in pots on the patio
too heavy to drag inside.
You with your knee and shoulder,
me recovering after the hernia.
Yet we’ll have ten round the table
this Christmas, all being well,
including three bright-eyed grandchildren
plus one neurotic greyhound
spooked by the beeping hob and oven.
The weather is bleak on this border,
just as the season ought to be.
I’ll try to stock up the bird feeder.
Bullfinches forage on the lawn.
Goldfinches make straight for the nijer.
The carved fox on the corner wears
a special hat, beside the village’s
modest, welcoming pine.
Some days the mist and drizzle clears.
The night sky’s necklaces intertwine.
Each year deletions on lists of addresses.
Awaiting daily doorstep deliveries,
you’re harried by parcels and deadlines.
Soon they’ll be bursting through airport doors.
From the Costa del Sol, to Northumberland.
