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This is a collection of poems told from fictional view points. They are not about me. |
She spoke of home in hushed whispers, far away eyes caught on a memory of Christmas sparkles, flashes of multi-coloured hues, framed by snow that resembled icing dripping from a perfect story-book gingerbread house. She spoke of warming chilled hands on mismatched mugs of mulled wine, redolent with heady scents of cinnamon and anise, sensuously entwined with underlying fragrances of pine, roast potatoes, ham glazed with ginger marmalade, and fruit mince generously soaked in brandy from a dusty bottle. She spoke of hand-sewn stockings hanging from a mantelpiece supporting an assorted collection of cards stuffed with well wishes, above a fireplace that crackled and popped with an authenticity conveying warmth and tradition. She spoke of balls of crumpled wrapping paper, torn edges in greens, gold and crimson, interspersed with discarded lengths of clumsily curling ribbon, that told their own tale of thoughtfulness, of preparation, of satisfaction and excitement. She spoke of home and a scene so unfamiliar and yet I knew I’d seen it before in a hundred movies and on a thousand greeting cards so unsuitable for my own holiday season. Free verse. Written 28 November 2018. |