Votive by Finola Scott

I am not a silent poet

A battered box hiding at the back
of the top shelf sings Xmas

Dad’s hand clear and confident
though his writing has long faded.

Cardboard bulges with time’s textures.
Christmas pasts tumble – tattered tinsel

a yellowed fairy eager to make magic
musty crackers, shattered scarlet baubles.

Unravelling tangles, I set the crumpled star
high in place to cheer returning family
.
Outside the deluge weeps. Azure glaciers
calve, an Exodus bleeds risking all,
Herod’s troops mark doors.

..

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