Christmas
Brittle as a glass bauble
poised to fall from the pine’s soft tips,
or a wine glass perched on the table’s edge.
The season when everything glitters and sparks:
party people, sequinned and jewelled,
hands meeting like flint and steel;
garlands of laughter; cape gooseberries,
their golden fruits ablaze in paper leaves.
Guests arrive, shrugging off memories
that might dampen their light:
the cards they didn’t need to write this year,
a copy of The Sense of an Ending
still waiting to be wrapped.
Later, while seasoned logs burn long and slow,
they will place the old year in the embers
watch it flicker, flare,
turn from blue to gold.
Jan Harris lives in Nottinghamshire and writes poetry, flash fiction and short stories. Her work has appeared in 14 Magazine, nth Position, Abridged, Popshot and Mslexia.