Poems for Advent 3
for my grandmother - Olive Ruth Sherwin
Handed down in safe preserve
with all that she could make
she held the secret Christmas lore
for pudding, sweets and cakes.
Her arms were full of shopping
or white with flour thick
and it was always her that killed
and plucked the Christmas chook.
Her eyes reflected seventy,
Christmas days and nights
berry-shine alive with pine
and tree trimmed coloured lights.
A rich hive of all the season's
stories, songs and books
her words were wise with Dickens
folk-tales and St. Luke.
Her pink chair in the corner
was tired, frayed and worn
and every Christmas from her heart
Christmas was reborn.
She was old and silver; lavender;
but always first and last
the one who held each lovely ghost
of every Christmas past.