Its Gone, It's Really Gone.
The rustle, the shake, the smell of old pine needles
by Dave James
The cat heads for the door, the kids play on the floor
The drip, drip, as the stalk gives up its place in scented room,
The lights already tangled ready for their cardboard box,
Pulled through a narrow door the tree just like a corn on the cob
Strips its contents bare, revealing the stalks,
The vacuum, oh yes the vacuum, that says its over for sure,
Busy women, men keeping out of the way,
The bins stacked full to burst, the sadness of it all,
Where once bright lights shone and children stared
Now normality spreads its spin-dally fingers once more,
The kids still play.
The cards are off the walls, they too are less each year,
The world wide web, a place to say hello no time to write.
The loft door opens, the darkness smothers the sparkles
Lights that felt so warm now cold and uninteresting,
No gasps on seeing them now, just a cardboard box for home,
The attic door slams shut, the dust rises, it smells musty,
The lights are in the dark, it's quiet, very quiet,
The fridge is fit to burst with cooked food and alcohol,
Destined never to be eaten or drank
Because it's gone, it's really gone.