Post-Christmas Waysides

I was looking for a wayside to fall by…

A springy bank with clumps of thyme

Might soothe the aching heart and limbs

Make journeys of the soul more manageable.

But where I live the footpaths are festooned

With torn merriment and trailing lights,

The leavings of goodwill. In a stalled car

I find three fractious wise men,

Arguing over a star. I fetch them

Jump leads, tell them about

The dozen or more stars I’ve fallen for.

They’re cross and lofty, barely mutter thanks,

They tell me I’m short-sighted, female and unsuited

To high expeditions. Go home, they say

And watch the story later on tv. Your future lies

In the small ads not the constellations.

They rev the car, all fast and purposeful,

I watch their tail-lights from that barren, starless gap

Between child and grandchild.  

The heavens are dark, the ousted Christmas trees

Stick close and thorny by the narrow path

Smothering waysides.