With closing time drawing nigh,
Torn between a spruce six-foot high,
And a small potted tree I sigh,
Both equally tempt me to buy,
Spoiled for choice I only stop and stare,
Then leave them both still standing there.
A holly bouquet I easily carry,
By the shelves of mistletoe I tarry,
(I stop myself choosing an obvious M-word,
At my age that would be quite absurd.)
After picking one bunch I reach underneath
For a suitable holly wreath.
This rhyme wriggles, wends and rewinds,
Its’ way until some sense it finds,
With a very small fleeting smile,
Hiding down an evergreen aisle,
And would bend and broaden it too,
Then pass it straight back to you,
I’d greet you and you’d stand with me
Beside a living Christmas tree.
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