Christmas Day
Always an early start after Santy’s visitation,
gave stocking toys a cursory examination,
then to the main event beneath the Christmas tree,
ripping into shiny paper setting contents free.
The morning spent examining, playing and nibbling,
ignoring breakfast for serious chocolate consuming,
an uncle and my dad set off to the club,
time to get dressed and give the face a rub.
The clans had gathered around one in the afternoon,
Jack, Gladys, mam, dad and Doris in the room,
a celebratory glass of sherry before the main meal,
cramped in the sweaty kitchen formality was real.
‘Best wishes, long life and prosperity to you all’,
my dad’s annual toast a verbal coverall,
chicken legs for the men and breast meat for the rest,
sprouts, potatoes, Yorkshire puddings were the best.
A massive plateful of well-cooked food,
seconds of some items, to refuse would be rude,
then a pause before mam served the pudding,
traditional, rich, fruity with custard flooding.
Time to relax and get ready for the Queen,
due at three, children not heard but just seen.
no talking during the regal message,
a period of silence, drooping lids sleep to presage.
Dad would retire to the kitchen to wash up,
happy in his solitude as kitchen backup,
the others sank into chairs to doze,
the cacophony of snoring gradually rose.
Then it was tea time more things to eat,
the fayre was less bulky but tended to be sweet,
Christmas cake, mince pies and small sandwiches,
a final assault on our clothing’s stitches.
The party dissolved into a soporific haze,
eyes dulled, towards the television gazed,
shuffling and stretching signalling the close,
my dad drove guests home to their night’s repose.
Christmas Day over
for another year,
relatives replete with grateful good cheer,
no one could know what next year would bring,
who would be there for festival of
the King?
© David L Atkinson December 2020
God Bless
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