A long ago Boxing day midnight
revealed it’s glass tacks by the gleam
of shop window lights,
their passive hue, lying in wait,
luring and taunting with their wares,
their false promise of pleasure.
Garbed in red flash heraldry
stand plastic alabaster faces, lifeless,
wearing the vacant stares
of marketed beauty.
Above, swing huge stars,
ember dim, brazen under truth’s dark radiance,
while santas cling to lamp posts as
though nature itself is
laughing at this, man’s frail crayon
attempt to lift from the mire
the concrete bland.
Like a gutter metronome, a wine glass,
rolls to and fro, smudges, ghosts of
lips and fingers past, appear with each clink
in a constant toast. Intact, it must
have been carefully placed,
yet stolen to drink in the street,
now a monument to dichotomy.
Half a cracker, hops and tumbles past,
odd when not strewn among
This empty crepe wrapped shell,
in that moment,
in that desolate street,
symbolised all that
Christmas had lost.