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Sunday, 24 December 2017

Two For Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve

I am a boy of four or five –
Father Christmas is real and alive!
By bed-time on Christmas Eve
he’s loaded the presents onto the sleigh,
he’s taken off from the cold North Pole,
he’s flying fast through darkened skies,
reindeer straining at the reins,
jingle bells ringing, he is bringing
presents for all good girls and boys.

He’s bringing me my Big Present.
I want it more than anything else;
he’ll leave it under the Christmas Tree,
I know I’ll find it waiting for me.
He’s coming to fill the empty stocking
I’ve just hung up at the end of my bed.
He only comes if you’re asleep.

But I am awake and I can’t sleep
and the more I try, the more I can’t sleep
and I’m becoming crosser with me.
Perhaps – he came already, saw I was awake
and flew on by without stopping;
and now he’s gone and won’t come back,
and I’ll be getting no presents at all!

Sob, sob, sobbing, I go downstairs
to Mum and Dad, who say ‘Don’t worry,
Father Christmas hasn’t come yet.
Go back to bed. You’ll soon fall asleep
if you don’t try too hard.’
I hope they’re right and before I know it
I’ve slid down the slide to the Land of Nod.

When I wake up,
there’s something heavy
at the end of my bed and,
though my room is still
more dark than light,
I can see well enough to see
it’s my stocking!
Father Christmas has been!
There’s a cracker sticking out of the top,
the stocking’s all lumpy and bumpy
and it’s full of lots
of I-can’t-guess-whats!

Underneath the Christmas Tree
my Big Present is waiting for me.

© Richard Devereux

NORAD Santa Tracker 2017 LIVE: Find Father Christmas' location on Christmas Eve as his reindeers fly over UK

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.


Holy Office

Silent night, holy night!
Bright and calm with jets in flight,
As the servants of our lords
Cleanse us of the migrant hordes,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.

Silent night, holy night!
Sky a passport-blue delight!
Cherubim in white Kevlar
Unto hells conveniently far,
Hustle the migrants away;
Hustle the sinners away.

Silent night, holy night!
True Brits quiver at the sight
While the lesser, alien breeds,
With their dark un-Christian creeds,
Wait on this holiest morn,
Wait for the knocking at dawn.

© Philip Challinor

UK to deport Afghan torture survivor on Christmas Day

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

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