Leftovers (Poetry)

The waxy green holly has withered,
the Yule log burns low in the grate,
cards gather dust on the mantel,
cake has turned stale on the plate.

Pine needles drift in the corners,
the turkey lies bare to the bone,
a candle burns pale and unsteady,
a shadow is dancing alone.

Tyre prints snow-pattern the driveway,
a sherry-sweet kiss haunts the hall
and someone is playing White Christmas —
a voice groaning thin through the wall.

Gone are the guests and their chatter,
limp hang the tired paper chains,
foxes will chew on the carcass,
birds peck at festive remains.

Meanwhile the spirit still lingers
where perfume and smoke spice the air —
caught in a web of nostalgia
and left like a ghost on the stair.