December: Creative Platypus

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December

Loving Christmas is easy
As a child;
You have to learn to hate it.
Business encroaches and
Seasons fall out of joint
The further finance forces you
From home.
Moloch always did hate children.

I tried to find the snow
That fell at Christmas
But it withered with the
Carols that Anglicans are
Too holier-than-thou to
Sing.
Or maybe it was just the
Commercialism Harvey blew
All the way to the windy side
of Thanksgiving.

There was no magic
In those eight lost years
When we hauled our own
Christmas trees from the
Jones' and set them up
Beneath the vault of a
Cathedral ceiling.
There was pain in every
Movement of the saw.

These words are blood upon
The snow.
They lead past the river to
Our exile.

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