It’s over. Christmas shopping and over -eating.
Ham, and cake and 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; rubbish bins gape,
Like seagull beaks above us shrieking More! More!
Sun-softened plastic bags slump, streth ,and split
Spewing polystyrene avalanches, almost snow.
Flies gather, gorging on glut.
Insects, birds: will anyone ever clean this up?
Anyone? No. We still crave the glory of glut.
Days later. What day is it? No one knows.
Sweep round comatose Uncle Jack. Mind his drink.
The lawn cracks. No time to water.
Shops are no longer shut.
Join the brawl at the mall.
Sales! Credit! Bargains galore!
Glut and glory. More. Caw! What for?
Back at home the-parched lawns crack.
Stained deck chairs are slack, the courtyard a mess.
The pohutukawa’s red shedding its Christmas dress
Or is it bleeding out,
Showing us its bruised distress?