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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.

Jeff Guess


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