And so this
is Christmas:
Hours or
days with the friend, with my sons,
Snatched
from time as it flees by.
Moments
powdered with stardust,
Born to be
memories.
Christmas
trees under a Southern sky.
Gifts given
on train stations,
Or over a cup of tea
Or via the internet:
No Santa
around this year.
And at the
end of the journey,
An old man
asleep in his wheelchair:
My father,
and he knows not
What he
waits for.
