Stage street,
flashing cars,
marked by lumanaires
bright neon
Christmas streets.

Christmas has eyes
looking around corners
noticing every deep place
every sound
in the forest of the stars-
checking the wood.

Metal columns
smoke flowing across roofs,
yellow-lamp horizon,
war planes stabbing the sky-
peace – good will,
in the rivers of print,
the lines of people.

red dress uniforms
ringing bells into red kettle,
social registering-

And the post office
clostered into slots,
wrapped in brown paper,
ship in time!
Ship in time!

Around the curve
a man shudders
against the wind
on that range,
the one with the yellow-lamps,
the one with the stabbed sky.

Dave Barber
18 December 2008