The novelty of untimely bottles
Christmas would mean nothing to you
As we rocked down the stairs,
Cradled in farm animals,
Too early for the radio.
It’s bright for late December;
The kettle coughing to find rhythm.
I tugged a curled curtain cuff,
A sleeve of fleece clustered on the D-rail,
Bonnets perched on post-caps.
We stepped into the dull sound-box
Shallow where the pipes ran.
The ritual of whimpering had stopped
As you strained to pick a single flake,
Big but slow enough to avoid,
Your eyes were blue at last
In a silence absolute
A crystal glittering, finds a path
To your cheek
And you smile at me in confusion.
Our first real moment together
But I tell you,
‘She’ll hit the roof if she catches us
So I cóck the door handle gentle behind,
Closing Christmas to the bigger children.
The kettle has boiled.