There’s snow on the steeple and frost on the ground,
Sweets for a penny and crackers for a pound.
And a long woollen stocking at the foot of the sheets,
Waiting for Santa to fill it with treats.
Downstairs, there’s milk and mince pies on the table,
For Santa to eat, whenever he’s able.
Then sleepy eyes close, an end to resolve,
The conundrum of Santa, the mystery to solve.
I wake with excitement to early morn’ light,
It’s Christmas Day, Christmas! A feeling so bright.
In my stocking, an apple, chocolate coins wrapped in gold,
An orange, a spud gun, wax crayons, behold!
There’s heat and there’s bustle. An enticing scent
Comes from the kitchen where mother has spent
The morning chopping and mixing and stirring the pots,
Whilst we sit with comic books, joining the dots.
To shouts of delight, there’s present-revealing,
And a mountain of paper, halfway to the ceiling.
A train set, Scalextric, Barbie and Ken,
Rupert and Beano, Dr Who’s Cybermen.
Selection Boxes full of chocolate delights,
Snow falls in the garden, fun snowball fights.
Coal in the coal shed and ash in the grate,
Father will riddle it, a sound that I hate.
Then crackers are pulled and jokes, they are read,
A red paper hat sits proud on my head.
And father is ready to carve up the turkey,
Sharpening the knife, he’s looking quite perky!
Roast turkey and sausage and stuffing all abouts,
Roast parsnips, potatoes, peas, carrots, and sprouts.
All trimmings are there, bread sauce in a pot,
Gravy boat full, and all scalding hot.
The Christmas tree stands, with twinkling lights wound,
Baubles of gold, tinsel down to the ground.
Ribbons and streamers and multi-coloured balls,
Hang from the ceiling and are stuck to the walls.
In the evening, there’s TV and Morecambe and Wise,
Monopole, Cluedo, tea and mince pies.
And the radio plays carols and speeches and such,
It’s all grown-up talk; I don’t understand much.
And father is chatting to grandma on the phone,
She’s up in Blackburn, with grandad on his throne.
A taciturn man, he never says much,
Puffing his pipe and speaking double Dutch.
And then father says, ‘Now, it’s time for bed!’
And small children’s feet up the stairs they will tread.
With heads full of memories of chocolate and fun,
A life, oh so simple, no idea of what’s to come.
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One thought on “Christmas Past”
The Spirit of Christmas Past, with all its charm and lovely memories. The picture of an idyllic setting comes to life before my eyes and I imagine little tow-headed boys and girls with rosy cheeks, mom and dad sneaking a kiss under the mistletoe when no one is looking. Simpler days, happier moments. Sometimes I wish we could snap our fingers and go back there. This is a Christmas card come to life and it made my heart warm on this chilly night. Happy Christmas to you, Simon. A splendid poem, indeed. 🎄 🌟 🎅🏼 💚