I carried in the coal,

a small meagre amount

from the cold and ancient cobwebbed

behind fireplace

and with it, jumbled together

like a badly worded sentence,

some coins, mainly pennies

for that was all that was left

in a wallet bereft of Christmas joy,

a slice of half and half bread,

the wife’s choice, seeing as

bread makes me sick,

mangled to death,

not fit for the ducks

and some salt, processed and packaged

somewhere in the dusky lands

where midnight was still

and warm.

 

I continued the tradition

told me by a strong Liverpool woman

of being the first through the door

and bearing gifts

of never being hungry,

of never being cold

of having life continue into the New Year

and as I watched the night sky

fill to the point of saturation,

of distracting the moon from its celestial,

quiet observance, with fireworks

forged in Hell,

I wished

I had the strength to carry

the bag with me everywhere I went.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016