This was last year’s attempt at a Christmas poem, and it didn’t exactly come out very jinglebellsy – although it does use the word “Christmas”! With this in mind, I’m keeping it well away from Christmas and posting it in May. Enjoy!
The angel stood on the patio,
his feathers buttered and heavy.
He was not the angel we’d had in mind.
He was winter with a blown halo.
He was the sum of our moods – hot and popping,
spitting in fire like pigskin.
He was white ash and burnt marshmallow,
crick-cracking. His smile was an ice-flow.
He turned once. He kept turning.
He was a Christmas fairground.
We threw roasting-nuts. We won nothing –
just the sizzle-spin of his eyebrow.
Round and round, wings greasy,
muscles strained, steaming and sallow,
he yelled like a Mexican wrestler
until the hail came. Hallelujah.
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