Poems by Ann D. Stevenson

(He used to wind them
once a week.)

A dark oak clock
on the mantlepiece
stands bleak
above an empty grate
once a source
of warmth and light.

There is a slight glow
from the clock
on his desk
made of gilded brass
a farewell gift
from his final post.

The grandfather clock
a valued antique
stands silent in the hall
no further chimes
no pendulum swings
hands don't move any more.

The only sound left
is the faintest tick
from a well-worn watch
with its military band
a familiar fixture on his wrist
I now hold it in my hand.

My tasks for Christmas have begun
once the mistletoe's been hung.

Wrapped up presents under the tree,
hopefully opened up with glee.

A Christmas pudd and Christmas cake
amongst the  other goodies I've baked.

The turkey stuffed, ready to cook,
from much loved recipes in my book.

Table laid, plus crackers and games,
to keep it all fun, that's the aim.

But, oh it's such hard work for me.
It really is hard work for me.

To keep it all fun.  That's the aim,
table laid, plus crackers and games.

From much loved recipes in my book,
the turkey's stuffed, ready to cook.

Amongst other goodies, I've baked
a Christmas pudd and Christmas cake.

Hopefully opened up with glee,
wrapped up presents under the tree.

Once the mistletoe's been hung
my tasks for Christmas have begun.

A glass of wine nearby, he sat,
his spaniel beside him on the grass,
he flicked away a solitary wasp,
a buzzard circled overhead.

He watched both bird and insect
they were clearly to be seen,
unlike the predator within,
which lurked inside his bones.

Relaxed, he drank the wine,
a reminder of foreign climes,
snow slopes skied in Méribel,
boating trips on French canals.

Happy times, now long gone,
wine imbibed, creatures flown,
his empty glass caught the light
before the sun went down.