Remnants Of A Star

Another year for the elderly tree,
its sheen was passed expired,
its trunk was close to absentee,
its tinsel long retired.
As the branches bent in curtsey
it seemed as if it prayed
for mercy, blessed mercy,
to be put in a tree grave.
To this end it seemed it stretched
a finger to the socket,
we supposed to end its misery
by igniting like a rocket.

The baubles that remained
had lost their shine and shimmer,
the angels scratched and stained
and the Santas void of glitter.
There were bows defying gravity,
while clinging by a thread,
that used to be so velvety
and the brightest ruby red.
Two bells, that began as a pair,
no longer ding-a-linged
and a robin in need of repair
perched tailless and de-winged.
What might have been a candy cane
was shackled by a frill,
as if it was being detained
against its wish and will.
A homemade snowman, dangling high,
betrayed its cardboard core
and used its one remaining eye
to focus on the floor.
Bangers from old crackers
-pulled in olden days-
hung in rips and tatters
as they dissolved into decay.
A Magic Tree air freshener
(from Nineteen Eighty Three)
took pride of place, dead centre,
like a prized collector's piece.
The fairy lights hadn't worked
for many, many years
and the reindeer decorations
looked like they were close to tears.
Atop were remnants of a star,
we'd no choice but to knock it
adults now the children are
and only want to mock it.

It was easy to be all talk then
and now I hear my kids
declare, out loud, in public
how their tree at home's in bits
and we don't even have a second
to put on a good show,
just rewards, I reckon,
for my laughing years ago!
It may happen as it did,
as in McCarthy's new for old,
that I'll save ours from the skip
due to the memories it holds.

How lucky will we be if old age befalls our stars,
if our trees lose all their green and our children adults are
and they bring to mind occasions from their bygone days
and they remember funny things and they salute and celebrate
and they sing of five gold rings and they toast us all who gave
them times to add to memory to savour as we say
another year for the elderly tree before it's cast away.

(I wrote a poem for my uncle & aunt, Billy & Teresa, years ago (possibly 2004) called 'Adults Now The Children Are'. Looking at our Christmas tree this year reminded me of the poem but I can't find it, it must have been on the old PC that packed up a few years ago. It was written after my cousin and I had had a few drinks in Billy & Teresa's house and had begun questioning the idea behind the beautiful artificial Christmas tree out in the porch and the pathetic-looking one in their front room. (Neither of us had children then). We got a heartwarming explanation from Teresa that they'd had it for all their own children's Christmases and she liked to put it up for their grandchildren. She also said she threw it out in a skip once but went and rescued it the next day. We had a great laugh that night laughing at the little old tree and disregarding Teresa's attachment to it, sorry Teresa! Just the other day in Tesco my nearly 4-year-old commented on the store's tree and shouted, "it's giant, not like ours"!

I've added this post to Dr. How's Science Wows's seasonal linky. For the other posts click here.

Update on 18/12/2014: My uncle has been in touch to tell me that the tree is out in a skip right now...but he's not sure that it won't be rescued before the skip is collected after Christmas!) 

Paddy

I noticed when we heard the bell and someone got the door
that it was easy then to tell if the caller'd been before.
And if we heard the question, "is this Pat McCarthy's house?"
I felt it so respectful that they'd called to see his spouse.

Fifty-eight years ago at the crack of dawn
Mary took Paddy northside to Mount Nebo in Grawn*.
They'd got married in one ceremony with Anna and Pa too
and the O'Sullivans laid breakfast on for guests of brides and grooms.

One plus seven children and known both sides of the Lee,
Mary packed both their bags for their hols up in Kilkee.
They had a camper vehicle, they called it the Luv Bug,
she paid ten pounds ESB each week and he drove a coach for work.

(My uncle, Paddy McCarthy, passed away on 07/11/2014. He was 80 years old and had had a good life. I couldn't make the funeral but went to see him laid out at his home, RIP Paddy, 1934-2014.

*Grawn is a colloquial Cork term for Gurranabraher.)