Muddy boots, the sign of a good adventure
breeze-dried to my jeans.
It’s Christmas, and anyone who knows lonely
will know how much this means
to have hands to pull you up.
The wind gives me time to steady my feet,
mist lingering in earnest to softly kiss my cheeks
with afternoon colours, greys and greens and blues
and we could be on top of the world.
Now, more than ever,
I understand nature’s lesson;
a picture really is worth a thousand words.
Opening the card, it reads
‘Happy Christmas, love Santa’,
by double figures, means
‘It’s Christmas, from Mum and Dad’,
declining to seventeen’s
‘Christmas. Mum.’
And you were what was left
of pass the parcel,
layers peeled away,
and in all the excitement
of what you could have been
they saw not what you were,
the suspicious package
in a neglected nativity scene.
Left wrapped
to re-use next Christmas,
left wrapped
to keep warm in winter,
to dress the body modest,
or just for a while,
to stabilise the bones
bubble-wrapped in a box marked ‘FRAGILE’
then set alight to smoke,
breathing in the sticky sweet tobacco,
vacuum-packed for a fresher death,
the little matchstick girl
takes her last breath
and wakes up,
wrapped in your arms.
