Christmas City 2020

And in the ever-increasing darkness

Of the endless year

The now desperate host

Dutifully arranges the tables again and

strings up the lanterns,

Swaying,

Whispering some light into the cold

---

The bejewelled-beleaguered bride

Made-up, mascara streaks

Covered-up

Awaiting

Inevitable jilting

At her festive altar

---

And those still walking,

Still able,

Still willing,

show up for her.

And make smile their eyes

From afar-

For her

---

And she gulps back her gratefulness in waves

To automatically welcome all of them

But now distantly and

Each..

One..

Individually.

---

She throws open as wide

all of the doors she still can.

And shows them everything she still owns

---

And they politely stare-forward, past

the music-less, chatter-less pews.

And they do understand why there are

sparkly frocks and foods for a future party

cut from designs of the past.

---

And they long for her perfume

Once heady, rosey, boozy;

Once filling their airways

With unruly smells and tastes of togetherness

---

Now replaced.

And they are stripped clean.

And they wring their dry hands

and taste their own air again

---

But they are so grateful to her for the display:

For now, nostalgia or future hope?

But their muffled voices can’t yet sing

To fill her silence

---

Alison McIntosh

21 November 2020