Carted away

Carted away


From the drudgery of my kitchen sink

I hear the sound of distant speakers

Reverberating Slade off the homes

On our estate,

Oh I wish it could be Christmas everyday!

It's a carnival cart,

A Bridgwater carnival cart,

And as it draws closer I feel compelled

To witness this spectacle up close,

To see the awe lit up by bulb-light

In the faces of my neighbours' children.


My teens seem not as enthused as I,

A blankness on their faces when I suggest we go out to see.

Perhaps their childlike wonder has passed away,

Never to be seen again?

But mine?

It needed testing…


So, picture the image of a woman in her late 40s

Striding out of her back gate 

And up the cart-bulb illuminated street

To stop and wave

As Father Christmas 

From his wooden, community-created-car

Sits high above a cracker-converted tractor 

and waves back, with gusto!

There is joy!

Maybe not in the passing eyes 

Of the empty donation-bucket carriers,

But yes! There is joy in this perimenopausal world after all!

A mad storytale connection that's never lost,

Like an umbilical cord stretching between Childhood and Motherhood.


She laughs manically at the ridiculousness of it all,

To be waving at him, at her age!

And without her children!

Then her internal smile drops as she realises,

Soon there will be no more chance of children.

I've waved Father Christmas 

goodbye.

For now.


A Wensley 

11.12.2025






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