Waiting for Santa

A row of coloured lanterns glowed,

a stripe above a tree. I considered turning

them off for the night but the light

was all that Christmas Eve should be and besides,

I was waiting for Santa.

In the absence of a chimney, a landing strip

could only be a good thing.

I hadn't left cookies, or milk or beer, but I wanted to honour the night,

the sleepless child-me of Christmas Eves past,

so I turned my back on the gold-wrapped packages

and let them bask

all the night.

In the morning the light

fanning through the slats of my blinds, my eyes, was

hot, eleven o'clock

ish

yet checking my watch it was scarcely seven.

I thought of the light

of the night before, and the shells

of wrapping and discovered gifts that would litter

the floor tonight, and realised

that Christmas had already gone.