Father's Ritual (Poetry)

The same every year
timed (it seemed) to the day
he’d climb up to the loft
in his so-precise way

while we waited below
where the ladder was propped
till at length he appeared
in his arms a big box

Then the opening ritual
the contents revealed
regimentally packed
and religiously sealed

Those long chains of crepe paper
coiled neatly and bright
as the pleasure they brought
each December’s dark night

Two small Chinese lanterns
silk-tasselled that hung
in their quaint eastern glory
to add to the fun

Lametta like icicles
catching warm light
from the fire all ablaze
fit to dazzle the sight

Nested delicate baubles
of glass for our tree
bought fresh from the market
still green as could be

A box of tree candles
with holders that clipped
tight to those branches
then magically lit

A garland to frame the
round mirror impressed
with festive reflections
on the chimney’s broad breast

Well-preserved decorations
resurrected each year
all so very familiar
their memory’s dear

And the way that he stood
on the stool or a chair
to pin each one in place
(he exactly knew where)

For the pattern was set
every detail the same
and I’d trade each new Christmas
for the old ones again