Christmas morning

Hushed dark of Christmas morning
dense with jostling promise
more than a song of the senses -
the medley of the heart -
deep in the unmoving silence
in the cold, inky darkness
hope stirs again, spark within ashes,
the day holds its breath.

Rare feeling once again unwrapped
fizzing just beneath the ribs
childhood’s bubbling excitement:
of life unfolding, with its goals
hanging close as peaches on a tree
mine for the plucking as I grow;
of the first day of the holidays
stretching out, freedom scented;
of giggling through lamp-lit streets
towards the best-ever party;
of dressing up to meet a lover
sheathed in tingles and silk.

Thrills gradually worn thin by life
until the space which held them
gasps dry as a desert well,
excitement secretly grotesqued
to rumbling anxiety,
silent growing worry-tumours.

But early Christmas morning
before light opens
half in a dream, unbidden,
anticipation is gifted.