The circling vultures flew away disgusted.
Bring and buy sale: No renting.
Raindrops like diamonds
Their natural wealth priceless
Drenched we feel like kings
such reckless extravagance
In The Light of Thieves
An unmistakable presence in the room,
lingering without revealing,
observing through unopened eyes,
the ghost of the season watches all.
He sways in a draught like a reed by a river
as fluid as the moonrise and
gentle as a warm summer night;
but it is not summer, not now.
We feel him testing the presents under the tree
teasing the corners of carefully wrapped extravagances
whilst casting looks to those without.
Thieves he calls us,
though not with malice.
We sit in the hues of myriad sparkling lights:
vermillion; sapphire; citrine and more
wondering if everything we’ve never asked for
has fallen from the stars;
there are those who only have the stars,
and even then only if roofless tents
are granted cloud free skies.
Christmas, a time of such joy and good will,
yet so hard to understand.
The seasonal ghost turns from us now,
he can’t bear it any longer.
He has dawdled as he dwindles,
as have we.
There was so much more to see
in his short window of time.
There is so much more to see
in our own.
But will we?
“Come stand beneath the candelabra,” she commanded.
My grandmother, old battle-axe, had never liked me. The feeling was mutual. As the oldest male heir I had inherited our family’s wealth. She had hated me for it, but I still attempted to be respectful. Blind as a bat and equally nocturnal, she eyed me as I stood in the full glare of a hundred crystal housed candles. As if illuminated by God’s own searchlight, I returned her glare.
“Ha!” she expounded with a flourish releasing some sort of rope.
“Damn!” shouted I, as the candelabra slit open my skull.