Staring into gaudy pink glass,
A laugh escapes thin lips
And spreads to the face in the next bauble,
Just as contorted and curious
As the first.
Hands bound in green cabled lights,
swearing whilst the end is eternally sought in the
bottom of the box which was packed
so carefully last year, pinecones
and paperchains making their escape.
She’s seen better days, that angel,
Skirt twisted and dusty,
nicotine stained face and hands,
Her 1960’s hairdo more birds nest than beehive....
But without her the tree would be naked
And it wouldn't be Christmas.