a white dove perched on the tip of my blue and gold tree-- a
magpie warbles from the hills hoist
 the fire-truck sounds a hooter-- no bushfire just the seasonal
lolly-run for the kids
holly and the ivy-- golden-haired choir boys sing on TV a wattlebird
ruffles the grevillea
the tell-tale grunt-- we call the children outside in the dusk to hunt
this sleepy Christmas Eve koala
Santa on the TV news in real ice and snow-- tonight it all seems somehow
less of a fairytale
the eight-year old not confident to declare her secret knowledge goes to
bed early ... just in case
a quiet drink beside flickering tea-lights and brass reindeer he eats
the plated mince pie remembering to leave crumbs
Christmas wrapping into the recycling bin-- for a moment I consider
saving the gift tags for next year
after presents we unwrap our pale bodies and purge our souls in the
crisp morning surf
rain for Christmas but no one grumbles-- thinking of farmers and rivers
now flowing with goodwill
ham and turkey fruit salad and wine-- some of us wearing these papers
hats look much older this year
card games and another cup of tea-- at this rate will the fruit cake
last until January?