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.