Lindsay Waller-Wilkinson

I’ve always done Christmas.
For twenty bloody years
I’ve been the best
open house… no one missed it.
Party? Yes please…
But this year
I’ve missed the boat…
I’m all at sea.
You’ve rocked me.
I loved preparing stockings,
covering the tree
with glitt’ring crap,
but this year… I’m all at sea.
My hearts not in it.
The first year since I had a family
I don’t know who I’m meant to be,
a difficulty, since everyone I know
takes their lead from me.
We’ll get by and things’ll be OK.
I know… they say…
But… if truth be known
I struggle with the great unknown
and cry bitter fucking tears.

Woodblock trees stamp black cross citrus sky
and guard the crest, stand firm against marauders.
Seasons march on forwards, invading years and tears.
Talcum dusted lunar lands, weathered feldspar fields,
hoar-crusted roads turn crystal-quartz in halogen beam.

I drive you to the station lemon dawnlight breaking
unaware of just how far away your final destination’s
taking you. Our snowy owl sits guard and watches
from his sign. I thought it was an omen. If I had known
would I have turned the music low and spoken?

We talked last night. You said it’s not been long.
12 weeks 4 days 7 hours 10 minutes, I’ve been
counting. Seven million six hundred and twenty nine
thousand lonely heartbeats. No wonder that I feel
so tired and sad and bruised and fucking broken.

Stumbling forth much cider-addled

swaddling-wrapp’d in Christmas cheer,

festive tunes beat marching rhythms

sung by luteous fuzz-blurred moon.

Light our tallow-faced meand’rings.

Light our way to Talkin Tarn.

Hill-top guardians, black-limb’d stanchions,

iron giants, arms outstretch’d,

spitting fizz, bright brittle crackling

arcs electric, purple hiss.

Walk the line of skeletal monsters.

Walk the line to Talkin Tarn.

Snow lined hollow, sleepy sheep all

fallow-buff like sugar lumps

fuddle thrown, sweet huddle-muddled

piled in china, white as bone.

Trudge our way in caravan.

Trudge our way to Talkin Tarn.

Bristled tines, pine scented arbour

succours snowy lunate shore,

underboot, soft-footed needlings;

seriatim rendered mute.

See the glist’ry icy vista,

see the myst’ry. Talkin Tarn.

Moon-loon madness overtaking,

dancing arm-linked can-can craic,

thwacking echo, snap-snap bull-whip,

ricochets deep down below.

Risk life’s brittle carapace.

Risk the kiss of Talkin Tarn.

Winter-moon, bright hole, punched

through to whitelight heavens, only

light. No solid mass of rock and dust.

Chalkboard stripes mark lucid arcs

crosshatched across a blackboard sky,

drained of colour, earth’s cold cover,

patched and mended quilt, white-zinc

to ink and all the shades between.

You shared your plan to take me

in the snow and I, your willing cohort,

artfully attired in mink-grey-fur,

lace stockings, carmine wellies…  wait.

You make your way, the whitening sky

weighs heavy-laden, ashy, finally

releasing it’s glittering confetti. First

it covers your path, later our tracks.

Sole sound amidst the deadened silence

I hear you. Lust-flushed, I rush out

to feathery flux, wild chaos swirling.

Embracing. Hands. Skin. Mouths. Hair.

You almost take me there in the deserted

street, legs wrapped round you tightly.

We run riotous, laughing, into the garden,

and make snow angels while we fuck.

December twilight.

Dirty pink face, black thumb smudged,

salt trails, bruised eyes cry.