For weeks I seem
To have been
Sweeping glitter
From the floor,
Slivers of golden cherubim
Small stellar heavens
Scattered by children.
Tonight, Christmas Eve,
Tinsel scatters
The lights of the tree,
Stalwart, gaudy and delicate,
Watching over me.
The loveliest,
Closest we get
To earthly incarnation
Of a God we long for
Who does not exist.
A glass of port, sipped;
A half-eaten mince pie
On a white plate
Stand simply on
The boys' blue table
And indicate that Santa Claus
Has been
And filled their stockings upstairs.
Apart from me
The household sleeps.
It is not even midnight.