On the days before Christmas Grandma made her
greasy mutton stew or her pot of boiled potatoes
swimming in cabbage soup; but for ‘afters’

there were mince pies and coffee made the way
the Americans did on TV, the pot percolating
on the Aga, blurting in rhythm into the thick

bottle glass cap; and just behind it proudly
stationed in her special Nenagh Aluminium
pot her pudding boiled with a rattle and pop

to the kitchen radio’s ‘Jingle Bells’, or Harry
Belafonte’s ‘Mary’s Boy Child’, while Grandad
carried in crates of Egan’s red lemonade,

and teasing us beyond measure with a feast
of Oatfield sweets and Cadbury’s selection boxes.
The rosary of fairy lights strung from building

to building seemed powered by the electric
excitement of children and townsfolk in preparation
for caroling, late wrapping and visits to the Crib.

Even when I was too old for Santa Claus,
as we walked back after Midnight Mass,
I would still imagine him out on his sleigh

skimming across a carpet of stars, delivering
before the Christmas morning light shied him away,
regretting my unbelief as each year passed.