The tills are ringing out a merry dance

for the delight of times gone by,

Santa’s hat is being primed

and the decorations are all on high,

twinkling with colours, music and fun,

the adverts have started,

broadcast to remind of others,

of those living and those dearly departed,

yet deep down in November’s grip,

something feels wrong

the message is out of kilter

there is bum note in their joyous song,

the presents, the greetings, it all seems false

the communication that is loud and clear

has replaced the meaning

with the overspending economic idea,

“Record spending on Christmas“, is the headline

and forecast designed to thrill,

yet somehow the money once in

never leaves the Parliament till,

and the hidden figures on the balance sheet

are the ghosts forgotten,

record spending this yuletide

but what about those which life has treated rotten,

the children in poverty

throughout the disunited Kingdom of ours,

the three hundred thousand on the streets

looking up at different stars,

as a frightening amount

is spent again,

on stuff that lasts as long before it gets broken,

whilst others see the decorations with a wince of pain.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017