A winter sun warms baubles
which glint as they cling
to fingers of fragrant pine.
Thoughtful gifts lie neat
next to ripped paper.
are silenced by the peace
which sits fat on this traditional day.
thrilled, sucrose-filled grandchildren
will demonstrate new electrical gimmicks and gismos.
We will feast while I stand firm with myself, refusing to overeat
so I don’t ruin the treat of evening cheese.
When the table is cleared, we’ll play silly games.
As dark deepens, children will play and over-eighteens
will take turns to choose music,
praising or abusing the chooser of each tune.
We will all be equal;
all equally insulting, with one
short-lived exception; there will be
a brief act of deference when Leonard Cohen
serenades me with a single song.
We’ll tell jokes, talk movies, tastes, politics,
hand-slapping when views concur,
mock-raging when we disagree.
The racket will rise; we will be
ever more raucous until we must shout
in order to be heard.
We are united in love.
We do not celebrate quietly.
You might mistake our solid core for a battlefield,
yet it is a haven of peace and safety.
We laugh while we yell, and our laughter
to cease musing and leave, time
to replay the untiring Christmas theme.
I reach for my coat.
The phone rings.
I lift it, and listen
while pained words
©Jane Paterson Basil