The savings club paid out
and father flush,
his Christmas Box,
a crisp fiver
in a snowflake design packet
now safe in mother’s purse.
It didn’t matter, the long day
just once a year,
Northampton
on a double-decker, up top
encircled by the woodbine fog
and heavy condensation
fastened sliding windows.
Same plan every year
market first for the cockerel,
department store Father Christmas
fish and chips for lunch
then a late afternoon ogle at the lights
in the Co-op arcade.
Same bus home,
bags, boxes, packages everywhere,
under the seats, on laps
and the bloody cockerel’s head
swinging from the parcel rack
mesmerized me to sleep.
Merry Christmas.
© Graham Sherwood 12/2015
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