The ouroboros of eight,
mouth full, speaks forever
of doors and portals cautiously opened
from times past when scared eyes
scoured woodlands for sacred evergreen
and feasted to last the dark,
through the missionary rewording of the same,
to now, the snaking trucks
of the cola company

The cursory glance at the gingerbread man,
today’s tenuous character,
only momentarily takes my mind
off the biro circles, patiently drawn
in the catalogue downstairs
since September

Sunday night
fever dreams grip
as Monday sneaks its sickness in,

The working week, an ague
of shivered sweats and broken thought
without the salve of your talk,
your medicinal tongue

Longer days hide Friday night
and recovery

With overflowing hearts
a man and a woman
younger than I am now
watch their kids’ fascination grow
opening a paper square to show a busy sleigh.
For now, they can avoid the fact
that the thing that keeps
the young girl’s hands warm in the picture
is called a ****.

There’s a jazz Christmas in my mind

that other, impossibly cool cats
seem to have,

but I have never found

Peel the door - Five go-old riiiings!
Though my dazzled, growing mind
struggled with partridges, pears and all
I loved that daily
school held teachers term-tired enough
to do singing practice for hours,
consigning maths
to the grey stretch of January

Coaxed awake through floorboards
by the kitchen radio, distracted then
from the holly behind the fourth door
by Shakin’ Stevens’ parties and celebrations.
Now, looking back nostalgic for eighties
nostalgic for fifties,
the true meaning of Christmas appears