DECKING THE TREE
It has come round again. Time to bring in
the dwarf pine in its tub from the patio
and necklace it with lights, the silver
balls and frosting. The children chatter
of secretive night visitors, a sound like the crackle
of paper in their throats. So little and so much.
Some of the deeper cupboards are again
out of bounds. The mercury climbs towards Christmas.
No fires. No holly. At the gate flaring feathers
of the pohutakawa spread themselves right on time
like mating birds. So much promise. The road
dips down towards the hazy blue blue
as a bruise. And the old wound of Kapiti stark as
a scar, sentinel over other forms of feasting
and a dark past: threat of an old nightmare.
There is little disparity in all this. We hold
as nuch of it in the mind as possible.
Variousness is itself. The pattern is what
you make, if you must, at your peril. A birth:
a death. The oscillating lights blink on and off.
Louis was a good poet, friend, mentor and host. He laughed a lot.
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