Across avocado
woodchip
Rudolf
pulled Santa
through our living room
not trusting
the chimney.
 
Before she gave him
pride of place
our mother glittered
his blushed nose,
anointing him
with glue
and fragmented light.
 
Year on year
she added to the trove
of tinsel and foil.
Heralding angels
spun by tea lights,
silver snowflakes,
paper chains.
 
I can still feel
the tight curl
of tinsel
where a strand
had strayed
too close
to the fire.
 
Our Christmases were
cheap and priceless.
An embrace of colour
that our mother
enhanced
with her glue
and her glitter