The Ghost Of Christmas Past (Poetry)

It’s not the same at Christmas
with no child about the house —
there’s no flurry of excitement
no more creeping like a mouse
so’s not to wake the one who dreams
that Santa’s on his sleigh —
now Christmases are different
in their quiet wistful way.

There’s fairy lights and angels
plastic icicles and all
the baubled tinselled grandeur
of the tree that fills the hall
but no whispering or peeking
into cupboards — little feet
that tiptoe carefully in search
of hidden toys and sweets.

No need to plan a stocking now
the child has long-since grown
and left us with no choice but spend
each Christmas on our own —
the ghost of her still lingering
eyes wide and face aglow
and saying for the hundredth time
‘I wish that it would snow!’