My Christmas poem for the Federation and your spirit within. STILLE NACHT On Christmas Eve, mum softly sang Stille Nacht. Busying herself with final preparations. Scotch pine, I recall her telling dad. Best for keeping its needles. She clipped red candles onto green sprigs, placed small bowls of walnuts, almonds and hazelnuts at the base of the tree. A plate of Gingerbread treats for the reindeer. A glass of schnapps for Santa. Dad lit the candles … switched off the lights. The small white flames flickered. The coal fire spat, crackled, a yellow-red glow. The radio kept us company till bedtime when the cuckoo-clock’s pine-cone weights would be adjusted by dad. I’d snuggle under my continental quilt the only one in our street. In the morning the treats and schnapps were gone. Frohe Weihnachten, mum would say, giving me a hug. And of the presents left under the tree my favourites were the books. Usually an annual, The Broons or Oor Wullie, with the blackest of ink-black drawings and their heady scent of newness. But once, it was Around the World in Eighty Days. A first hardback with an orange paper cover. We’d listened to it on the radio the week before. I still remember the cracking of the spine and the opening up of a world from which there would be no escape. Brian Whittingham
Posted on: Thu, 25 Dec 2014 11:18:09 +0000
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