Slip through the letter box with messages:

Some bland, some more intense, some aching with

Bereavements, wives abandoned, loss of jobs.

The annual contact on a patient card.

‘See you next year’ some say and quite forget

Before the ink is dry.   A plaster patch

That leaves no sticky mark on minor wounds

However much the cover faces please

With coloured art or kitsch or nearly art.

One threatens every time in wiry script

‘This is the last card I shall send.  I am

Too old now’.  Still it slides into my hand.

And there is one that comes anonymous,

Unsigned, the postmark adds its mystery,

A smudge, a ghost behind this paper mask?

Perhaps there’ll be a few to tuck away

After the show, in an old envelope,

Fingered at times because the sender once

Carved hope into a fraction of your years;

Or others will imply ‘I am still here’ -

A comma on your page a life ago.

We stagger carrier-bagged-up

with things that no-one wants

but that they’re getting.

We rush, red-faced in swarms

of blank consumerism

We cast careless items

into baskets like supermarket groceries.

But she stands thoughtful,

poised, index finger on chin,

or turns objects over and over

in her hands

feeling their beauty.

She chooses a small gift

but gives it value.

This fir-tree point could impale.

I balance on it, praying for still skies.

Fingertip bulbs in cracked coloured cases

Fuse, and threaten to burn my skirts.

Shiny red apples decompose on nooses.

Pine cones are sprayed with crunched-mirror glitter.

Sometimes it is thrilling,

This sparkle, this lack of roots.

Only the others hate me. Cry out

That I am no better than them,

It’s just my wings are sprayed with old gold

And a halo on a pin skewered through my scalp.

But I earned that jet of golden paint!

I suffered as the pin pierced my soft plastic head,

And unlike them, I cannot make mistakes.

An imperfection and I will be torn from this tree.

I cannot be bitter like a gift of myrrh,

Or they’ll say: “Who does she think she is?

Tied to a spike as if it’s a crucifixion.”

I am a seasonal decoration,

Pretty - but I will not bring salvation.

Tinsel is not real silver, you know,

Just foil that moults off in strips;

And nobody can join me up here.

What am I but a detail in this small beige room?

An afterthought in an outfit made of

Someone’s old wedding dress. These needles

Bring not sleep, just little hurts.

O, to have a Bethlehem to go to.

To be deep filled, like a mince pie.

Father Christmas, give me wings that work.

I am so tired of trying to rival snowflakes.