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Nov 2011 · 1.6k
Pamela Brooke Nov 2011

The goose was plucked for Christmas
Not a feather was in sight
The butler cleaned the silver
Cook baked with all of her might
The aristocrats in the morning room
Sipped a sherry or two
Whilst waiting for their dinner
It was the thing to do

All dressed in their finery
The children there as well
All except for Grandpa
(The stories he could tell!)
No one alas was listening
And no one noticed there
He’d on one foot a slipper
And the other was quite bare.

Below stairs was quite hectic
Upstairs all serene
And all along the passageways
And sometimes in between
Servants rushed as servants do
To make things run with ease
Tending fires fetching things
Aiming just to please

And Grandpa sat and nodded
His head sank on his chest
He remembered long ago
The Christmas he’d thought best
With one foot in a slipper
The other one quite bare
He waited for his dinner
Sat there in his chair

And soon the gong it sounded
Its boom rang loud and clear
They all trooped in the dining room
With those they held so dear
The table was resplendent
The glasses gleamed and shone
The cutlery was sparkling
The goose it weighed a ton

The master carved the mistress smiled
The children looked in awe
The butler served the vegetables
(Cos that’s what they are for)
The pudding was amazing
The brandy sauce was ace
They ate and ate until alas
No more could they face

All except for Grandpa
He was sat quite still
And no one noticed him not there
As they all ate their fill
With one foot in his slipper
The other one quite bare.
On Christmas day he died alone
Sat there in his chair.

© Pamela Brooke 2009
Nov 2011 · 584
Pamela Brooke Nov 2011

‘Are you here, are you here?’ he shouted, into the empty night
with worried frown he peered around in  the pale moon’s light
And with crackling leaves and branches on the hard frost ground
‘Neath his feet, he listened , to the night owls mournful sound

‘Are you there, are you there?’ he whispered; ‘Please say you are - and yet
‘Are you teasing, hiding, still playing hard to get?’
And his breath grew  raw and ragged  as the  winter’s wind did moan
And he stood there yearning, hoping - but still he was alone.

And far away in her chamber ,his pampered lover lay
She thought of him there waiting and then of yesterday
Of promises she gave to him and plans that they had made
Of thrilling days that they had spent in that forest glade.

But she was born to luxury and with his love she’d toyed
no scruples and uncaring, his hope she’d now destroyed
‘You’re not here, he whispered  and never will you be
And now you’ll never know my love what you have done to me.’

And so he left their meeting place  and walked until the dawn
The river deep it beckoned him his reasoning was torn
He looked around and shouted loud  ‘I knew she’d not meet  me
So  now I won’t be there for her and never more will be..

Hardly a ripple showed there on the river’s deep dark sheen
Not a trace to show just where his last  life’s breaths had been
That is except the footprints ,there etched upon the snow
That started in the forest’s glade with no-where else to go.

© Pamela M Brooke 2009

— The End —