Christmas.

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The Spa Glen, a Mallow Christmas and Beyond.
It was easy to believe in Christmas when I was young,
Grandmother Butler’s geese hissed, turkeys gobbled.
The heavens moved through the Grove’s dark branches,
Tony Butler tobogganing down the slopes all day long.
White deer wandered in the Castle demesne’s frosts.
The chimney was brushed and swept. We checked,
Poking our heads under the fire lintel to see the sky.
Straight to bed in our sky lit room waiting, awake.

Belief, superstition fades as imagination pales.
Santa demoted to Saint Nicholas to the Saturnal.
It was all explained so much so that baby Jesus
Was born years before or after Christmas Day, I have forgot.
There was the Christmas I spoke of marriage.
I spoilt, of all the days, their Christmas turkey.

Today I posted parcels to our grandchildren,
I fussed over post codes in York and Melbourne,
The Stamps, Peppa Pig books squeezed in bubble wrap.
The postmistress grinned. “It is worth it to make a child clap”.

Robert (Bobby) Buckley. Christmas 2013.

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