A portal opened in my lounge
sometime in mid-November.
A velvet wrinkle overlapped and
time’s quilt was oddly angled.
Up went the tree!
Up went the lights!
The glorious windows
dressed in party clothes.
Stair rods and banisters
festoons and fragrances
that speak of feasts and warming spices.
Inviting glows and cosy stories
by torchlight.
Outside
conker battles finalise into
en of season skirmishes.
Guys succumbed to elemental distress
and the stench of rotting pumpkin corpses
rang from the town in
jubilant and guttural rowdy shouts
as cold breath caught in
over confident throats.
As a penalty for this
badly ironed chronological coverlet
a fine was set
and the time was taken back.
With bated breath in stasis
the presents waited.
The house waited.
In the missing time a place was found for everything
and having no time to dally in,
everything went to its place.
Reset for rambunctious rabble’s return.
For music and pictures and stories and tea.
For dinosaurs and Harryhausen, Nick Cave and walks by the
sea.
Longing for the normal passage of time.
Smooth, wrinkle.
The house waits.
No comments:
Post a Comment