There is always the fire’s fading glow,
And us, basted in cheap Merlot,
The last glass emptied, carefully arranged
Beside a gold starred Christmas plate
With mincemeat pie, half-eaten evidence,
And silver glints of starry Christmas light.
We coax the magic, loathe to be estranged
From childrens’ trances, the nostalgic state
Of Christmas, even when it makes no sense
To perpetuate the rituals of this night,
But, does it really matter that we know
They stopped believing a long, long time ago?
Lesley Quayle is prize-winning poet, former editor of Aireings and author. Her work has appeared in Tears in the Fence, The interpreters House, Ink, Sweat and Tears and the North. She is also a folk and blues singer.