something calls me and it all drifts slowly into a fireplace of that long ago, with the wrought iron fork that skewered the bread and dad with a woodbine and flat cap on his head
and mum smelled of currants and a slight splash of port
it falls to me now to remember just how
the door left on the latch for the neighbours to pop in
the Advocaat on the table and toffee tin on the floor
and the family all swore it wasn’t them who emptied it
and I am lit up with the sights
of those long time Christmas nights
so long ago.
© 2017, John Smallshaw.