Silence. Dark.
No wind no rain.
Lone bird calls
heralding morning.
More in hope
than anticipation,
stretching a reedy cry
through pitch black.
One, two, three days to Christmas
and I still have no tree,
and the bathroom painting's still not done.
My 58th Christmas tumbling towards me,
and all those previous Christmases run
snap snap snap through my mind,
angels, candles, oplłatek and barscz,
big trees, secrets, fresh coffee and nuts.
I'm five again and can't believe
my father missed the angels ringing the bell,
calling us to go up to the tree,
Polish carols playing as the record turned
round and round and round.
Never caught sight of an angel.
Believed in them all the same.
And the teenage years,
sadly decorating the tree alone.
And buying my first tree for my first house.
And baby's first Christmas,
little girl in velvet dress,
Crawling through the presents.
Christmas with two, Christmas with three,
then four, five, six.
Then five again. A blank Christmas,
No one knowing quite what to do.
A little Christmas Island,
marooned on a mountain.
The next Christmas a bit better,
and the next, and the next.
Numbers swelling, partners, children,
hustle and bustle and too much to do.
Now shrinking again.
This Christmas coming
only two of us in the house,
and no-one running to see
if Santa's been.
I'll hang up the stockings.
I'll take what comes.
I'll look sideways through the half light
and hope to catch sight
of an angel, the last to leave.
Here's the miracle.
I'm 58. I'm here.
One bird believes in dawn.
Sent from my iPhone
Krystyna Rawicz FSCSI, FRICS
Managing Director
KRA Visionary Project Partners
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