One Man and his Dog
Mon, 14 Dec 2015
Your gift – ribbon tied, sits, ungiven
still, beneath the tree; a mere bottle of Port,
but a vintage one, I think...not that I know much
about that sort of thing.
The tree, a Nordman Pine; needles
dropping already. No idea why I bother...
liar that I am. A ‘man of the land’, as you are,
I do it for you, even though
each year I tell myself I’ll get artificial...
next time. If there is one, maybe I will.
Your glass of mulled wine grows ever colder,
as does mine...and the candle weeps wax tears
on my best, linen cloth.
Couldn’t give a damn, though; the only thing
matters – you haven’t showed.
I’m not even fazed the Christmas pudding
I made will go untouched. Can’t stand the stuff,
and yet, in your younger days, that is, enough
for you was never enough, if you recall...
Or the hassle I had, to make a Yorkshire
so it rose, ready to greet you at half-past one...
when you’d said you might, possibly, drop by.
Even a card would have been nice,
but never mind; I’ve still got last year’s
in the draw, somewhere...
Yes. Here it is; one man and his dog.
Such a tasteful choice, but then,
that’s you...all over; it’s in the genes.
I’ll pop it in pride of place on a window-ledge.
It comes out fresh again...don’t you agree,
and who’s to know? Except me, of course.
The fire’s snuffed it, and I’m right
out of logs, so, maybe, I’ll open that Port.
Just a drop, you understand. It’ll warm me up.
Could keep it, I suppose, till next Christmas,
or another of your birthdays, fool that I am.
So then, let’s drink; here’s to absent friends,
Auld Lang Syne, naturally...
and, to you, Son.