~
badgered by our granddaughter
age ten, almost eleven, going on thirty
to put up the Christmas decorations
earlier this year, you agree,
careful to hide your resignation,
our artificial tree, that’s older than she is
sleeps in the garage in a plastic sarcophagus
bought last year when the original
cardboard box finally disintegrated,
once again, we open the Pandora’s box
of memories, recalling perfectly where each
and every precious item was purchased,
the four tiny, glass angel carol-singers
from Australia of all places;
the clear glass melting icicles from Riquewihr,
easily your favourites:
a little painted drum from a curio shop in
Nantes and of course the old papier-mache
Victorian baubles,
thus, the tree is beautifully lit and
fully-dressed with reminiscences swirling
from those eclectic places and times,
each bauble passed carefully lovingly from
hand-to-hand between us,
I wait,
I know she will be left until the very end,
the tissue-paper angel that Laura made at
playschool fifty years ago, just for you
fragile as a butterfly and priceless,
she always makes us cry
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 