I’m linking this rather strange poem below (no idea where it came from or where it’s going, it’s just a first stab) to dVerse Poets Pub, where we are allowing ourselves to be inspired by Canadian poet David McFadden and write about our daily lives with a sense of wonder.
The light flickers and sickens
knives are now sharpened, forced back in the block
a sauce bubbles over in the pan
and bleeds to the floor
a ping of alarm
in the heat of the moment
and years of watermarks to adorn
wipe off the granite in spiraling sweep.
No turning back. The filth from the mouth
sputters out and deep.
Where the tinsel meets chestnut and cinnamon scents
they sit cocooned in ghostly warmth of Christmas past.
The fireplace crackling and stockings a-bulge
frenzied little voices
preparing carrots and mince pies to leave on the platter.
In the waver of unwatched candlelight
the train chugs round
with Christmas cheer
and then, just as the music turns high-pitched,
shaking the snow off her wings in a strop
oranges tumble from her sack patched with velveteen
walnuts clutter as she lays out each present
checks her list and counts again.
Of course Santa will get the credit.
In this our fairytale no one lives happily
but the gifts remain.