‘Christmas isn’t what it used to be’
That’s what old folks used to say.
And now, grey-permed, joint-stiff, home-alone
I find it’s so.
Weary, but contented to let memory paint pictures
Of days that seemed permanently cold, as we dressed
Thumb-fumbling by the stove,
Bringing bulging, mysterious stockings
To open; wide-eyed at the tiny, innocent treats.
Then to church, blowing on mittened fingers,
‘Big’ presents of comic annuals, paints, dolls, yet unopened.
Home again for dinner – ‘here, you can help
Make bread sauce; stick cloves in this onion, so.’
Simple fare, but rare in its appearing only then:
The turkey, sprouts, coin-concealing pudding
Spread amidst happy, paper-hatted faces,
Even Grandpa white-haired and ruddy-cheeked,
Smiling now by the cave-pitted fire.
Those days, nostalgia’s bright offerings,
Smile at me,
Quietly, alone, but not lonely.
Because it seems, childish excitement long hushed,
I hear more clearly now,
The cry of a Jewish baby, long ago, but very near.
