Attacca

Attacca

 

Believe me, when it’s time for years to croak,

and your muffler chokes your duffle coat,

trailing scarves and mittens from strings -

chalk up these as few of my favourite things.

Perpetual percussions of coughs, sneezes,

quick, quick, take Beechams, Strepsil throats,

and sing a song of cherry menthol tunes.

Here is space between Christmas dreams

and a glorious dawning of New Years,

so relax, legs up, let’s spin overtures,

watch footballs, kick backs, a downfield cross,

and the final score tot up a nil, nil bore-draw.

Footfalls tape-measured, underlined, flossed,

an average punter queues for dim lit stores,

buys cut price roped-soaps, body scrubs,

while overhead clouds across the moon scud.

Janus, looking astern. He’s wrapped in plastic

sees you peel back everything on your table,

with pictures painted in wooden stables,

slop coats of saccharine jam and call it good:

every little helps and this is not just food.

Janus looking forward. Scopes naked trees,

fixes on your recycling collecting, uncollected,

hollow empties that bottle banks rejected,

drooling from boxes, leaking from bags

and whipped winds chase torn papers in drag.

For a coda, Santa’s notes are carried like seeds,

and sprouts shoot from germinated microbeads.