There was always holly in the house,
Dark green and variegated,
Unexpected cream lines catching the eye,
On the mantelpiece behind the crib figures,
On top of pictures
And of course on top of the pudding,
Yielding a faint bonfire aroma
As the blue flamed pudding made its ceremonial way
Around the table on Christmas night.
My job was to help pick the sprigs
On damp grey days in musty gardens
Exploring borders with scissors and basket
And despite gloves, nursing
Tingling stingling hands in the evening.
Jo Hansen 