A Storytelling Christmas

 

Old age comes upon one like an unpaid bill,

Suddenly forgotten years are trying to get in,

One looks so changed yet inside time stand still,

We owe life this, inspire and smile and all the while

Wonder if that drop of water or the gushing stream

Or that white cloud which does so weightless seem

Is full of rain? Or that brave horse who flies

The field and wins the race and your heart steals,

And won another Boxing Day Gold Cup.

 

Christmas too, those childish thrills,

Of knowing Santa’s standing on the roof

Soon a hoof will clatter and will tell,

Presents will appear and magic too,

Of Christmas trees and coloured lights

Of roasted scented turkey basted brown,

Will soon be sitting upside down,

Crackers too, those silly bangs and worse

Those riddles wrapped round toys,

Should we keep or throw into the bin,

Or is Christmas growing very thin?

 

I hope when old that magic we can make,

And feed it to the children like a fruity cake,

Magic stories should be told of long ago,

When all the world was deep in whitest snow

And tinkling icicles prisms spinning light

Dripping thoughts into our mouths,

Remove my signs of age my creaking bones,

Return my youth to sledge along a bank

And laugh, and feel the thrill lightheartedness

And have dear Christmas for to thank.

 

Caroline Baldock©2018