Christmases

Tasseled albums of Christmas kings and queens
all stuck down with moistened photo corners
slipping crazily on pages, leaning
pictures fallen out, the missing
and the missed.

Square white-bordered photographs of uncles
wearing paper crowns, now dust,
aunts, never seen, always in the kitchen.

A Christmas Evening dash to Charlotte Street
sprouts and mud-caked spuds, lamps, faded awnings
tied back in awkward bunches with frayed string,
shrill cries from coster carts with real cartwheels,
the price per pound shouted, labels stuck in
at awkward angles,
badly spelled.

Replacing coloured bulbs by screwing in
and testing till the tree stood awkwardly
against the wall, glass baubles carefully hung
pine needles springing out at every touch,
guarding a pile of brightly-papered gifts
with labels fallen off.

Crackers that would not crack, bad jokes,
not really worth the bother, but still fun
to guess a likely question from the clue,
yet more crowns and hats,
'trimmings' on our plates.

We toasted 'absent friends', grey dust in books
beyond our recollection, not missed now,
being 'gone before', we had not known them,
but to our elders, still the dearest friends
and family they longed to see
and could not.

Cousins sent reluctant to the piano,
a 'Challen', chosen for a family name,
where Granny's fingers strayed with confidence
to render ancient carols and the songs
bound up in well-thumbed volumes.

And we who squirmed to sing to please her,
'such a lovely voice you have, do sing',
always the threat to our unpractised hands
of rendering for her the first eight bars
of 'Moonlight' till the bit which stretched us out
… we soon gave up.

And now, we are the elders at our feast,
friends absent, with a friendly toast to make.
All their hopes for us we carry still,
and will pass on.

Our modern album, tassel-free,
no awkward sticky mounts,
electronic,
vulnerable.

It may not last so well.

David Clover