I see the lights a-glitter.
I hear the choir in song.
Children gaze, sparkly-eyed
For Christmas won't be long.
Deep inside the hillsides gut,
I see its entrails. Not soft like mine,
nor red with pulsing blood
but made of its own devising.
In the church, sunlight slants through coloured saints.
Paints the floor in rainbows. A flower sentry
made by earnest ladies, stands tall by the door, Scents the air
Another blue day.
Rising to meet the sky.
Not many days like this.
I pass grey buildings where decisions are made.
Notice how the industrial revolution smeared
dark blusher on their ageing cheeks.
My stride carries me down the alleyway.
This poet speaks and
Her words slice into me.
Slow and tender like
A silken thread, pulled
I left the preparations. The last minute pinning's,
smearing of ghoulish make up. Settling of wigs
and food made grotesque by strange colourings.
I walked down from East Hill House.
The ants formed a line.
Tiny bodies so tightly packed
That it looked like a solid entity.
Yet it moved. Wriggled and shimmied.