Magic, briefly recaptured
Like the lights on my Granny's Christmas tree,
A thousand years old, maybe, like my dad,
in bright, gaudy colours, unlike him,
So many colours,
All looking so wonderful that I want to cram them in my mouth
For that is how I experience all the most amazing things
Where all the things that spark my brain happen,
I find myself, with phone accidentally, illicitly on,
Gliding down, engines off, to Edinburgh,
the glorious glowing technicolour lights
filling some space at the back of my brain
I am in my pyjamas, insisting on seeing the tree in the dark,
with no ambient,
to detract from it.
I recall how, wishing to seem mature,
I agreed with my mother that white lights were somehow more pure,
how I didn't feel I could tell her
I wanted a tree that looked like a thousand of the most beautifully synthetic fruit flavour sweets had been struck by lightning.
Grown ups don't want to experience their Christmas tree by putting it in their mouth.
That is why they are boring, wrong
They don't want to stand there
in their pyjamas,
holding onto a hand that dangles above their head,
seriously questioning in that head whether something so magically beautiful,
so perfectly designed,
could not taste delicious.
Questioning whether an opportunity to eat just one
Fairy light will come my way
A red one - that means strawberry
I like that, strawberries never taste as good as bright red strawberry flavour things
Fruit pastilles are nothing if not slightly squishy fairy lights
Deprived of the electric
This boring quality of the grown ups
It may explain the surprisingly low rate
of Christmas tree-eating electrocution fatalities,
but the trade off doesn't strike me as a good deal.