Thought would have a go a a not so classic Christmas poem.
Crush, push, wait,walk.
It is the last minute Christmas shop.
Indistinguishable mutterings over the shop loudspeaker, directing a staff member, like a Devine message, to where they are needed.
Bags full of worry, weighing down already sunken shoulders. Presents of ‘will they like it?’ and ‘do they already have it?’
Modern bands covering classic songs, regurgitated each year. Played earlier and earlier and earlier.
Christmas is coming. The threat of this mammoth beast, ready to come and take over your life.
The look on the persons face when they open the present, the sunshine smile that spreads across it. The forgotten memory of the battle, once glory has been achieved.
The annual mantra of ‘I’ll start earlier next year.’