orientarr?
The year is spinning faster and faster
towards a cold Lang Syne.
Christmas expectations of all time’s children.
No shops open, or work, just silence.
Silence abed this Christmas Eve waiting,
awake, an awake, that sleep steals yet away,
to startle the dawn of a Dandy and Beano,
burrowing me down in my own bed of fun.
For it is! It’s a Christmas Day of smiles.
Nativity in the chapel.
We three kings of orientarr?!
A hot sticky road in China?
At Christmas?!
The word still winks at me down the years.
Stuffing and dad’s cigar smoked Boxing Day,
and satiated fireside snores.
But is there not something sad in the air,
that is squeezing the cold year tired out?
The pregnant pause of that old man scythe,
as the child of time at last takes centre stage.
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