2nd May 2020

morning heat
vapourising the nightmares
the dog's wagging tail

© Rachel Green 2020

Every year
we got the Christmas tree
from the hollow darkness of the loft
the plastic stand,
the wire and tinsel branches
the particular trolley it stood on
(next to the telly).
First the lights, heavy screw-in bulbs
in a set of twelve, but one didn't match
because they didn't make them anymore;
then the tinsel
chaotic, multicoloured,
the oldest strands barely more than wire, now.
Then decorations;
plastic circles with plastic nativity scenes;
glass baubles with the paint peeling off;
a white but sparkling giraffe
and a tin tucan, with bulldog-clipped feet
and a long tail of plastic strands.
Glass bells with the clappes removed
and a set of tiny festive crackers, never pulled.

Finally, the angel at the top
a plastic doll with a ra-ra skirt
that never unflattened
so she always looked like a can-can dancer
showing her bum to the window.

I inherited Mom's ornaments,
treasured them carefully
and lost them all in a house move.

© Rachel Green 2020