It’s over. Christmas shopping and over -eating.
Ham, cake, chippies, chocolate. All gone.
But where was the baby, gift-wrapped in hay,
Watched by shepherds and sheep? Gone.
Why did the kings from the East
Become a red man from the North,
And the manger become a sleigh?
Boxing Day, kerbside, by the bleeding tree,
Our rubbish bins full, their lids tilted
Like open beaks pleading more.
And we want more. We are insatiable.
Days later. What day is it? No one knows.
Sweep round comatose uncle Jack. Mind your toes.
No time to water. The lawn cracks. Who cares?
Same slack stained deckchairs. Same courtyard mess.
Same pohutukawa bleeding out,
Turning hard pavement into bruised distress.
Or is the tree just shedding its Christmas party dress
Preparing for New Year’s Eve, more fake happiness.