Christmas at the farm
My grandfather in summer best,
damask napkin on his chest,
seated at the table's head,
waiting to say Grace;
my father, angular and lean,
seated at the other end,
with me and my four sisters
and our baby brother ranged between,
as roast chicken and vegetables
vented fragrant whiffs of steam
and bubbles gently effervesced
in cloudy home-made ginger beer.
My mother's chair was mostly vacant
while she stoked the Dover stove,
one eye on the custard
and the jellies swooning in the heat,
unswaddling the pudding
from the calico's protective folds,
anticipating sighs of pleasure
as embedded silver coins
clinked against the spoons
like buried treasure…
Outside in the tropical
December air's humidity,
the season's theme of red and green
decked poinciana canopies,
their presences as vivid
and as palpable as family…
To absent ones and seasons past
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2006
Свидетельство о публикации №106010400641
Свидетельство о публикации №106010400641
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