Claire Booker

A strange nativity has bloomed at number twenty two.
Snow White (but no dwarves) virginal among
the pert and purple winter pansies, anticipates the sign
of hope in deserts of pea shingle neatness.

CCTV In Use hangs slipshod on the lintel –
uncertain star protecting German shepherds
(poly-resin moulded) a lantern at each throat,
silently watching their flocks of jubilant gnomes.

No wind turns the mill wheel: a plastic fish
struggles mutely on its line, unseen by mallards
that baste in tin foil lakes, and wait for tidemarks
of discarded fir along next month’s pavement.

So This Is Christmas seeps beneath
the pzschizsh of Polish builders laying roof tiles.
Twitching lights wink back a semaphore
of gaudy gladness and passers-by with smiles

attempt to catch the who and why of
private lives ventriloquised in garden bric-à-brac.
Groundsel, yellow starred, shoots a crack beneath the steps.
No faces at the pane. Just a cactus patient in its pot.

Posted by Faye Fornasier on June 12th, 2010 in Extracts | Comments Off



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