Tree Forty Four

Spheres of silver, or gold, or red, or blue,

Or one of those with glittery powder sprinkled on and glued.  

Glimmering and glinting with reflected light

From Christmas tree lights all bright and sparkly and white.

Old favourite angel, looking down

At silver snow slopes of tinsel cosily draping round

The rich, deep green, bowing branches.

Ragged, ripped ends of chocolate-coin foil, all spent,

Mountains of scrunched-up wrapping paper rent

Asunder all too soon in one long-awaited, ecstatic moment

Dumped, decaying, municipal-machine-mulched,

Tree Forty Four, short-lived, for sure

Ends up in the butchers shop on the floor.

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