An Aussie Christmas That joyous time has come to pass When summer’s heat warms man and beast, And wheaten fields burnt burnished brass Cannot compare, not in the least, With star of gold upon the tree— A pointer to Epiphany. Excited children wake and run To take delight at gifts below Sunlit branches, silver-spun, Where baubles glint like winter snow: In short—rejoice in Christ the King, Through joy of tinsel, globe, and string! And when all presents have been shared, Extended family pull up chairs For fare where no expense is spared: Of sweet-meats, nuts, and candied pears, Potato salad, lots to drink, Meringue desserts whipped creamy-pink. A prayer is said for year ahead, Where peace abounds, and dreams are met. Then, after dinner jokes are read From cracker papers: crumpled, wet; And those around the table laugh, Although the jokes are dry as chaff. With table cleared and dishes washed, A game of cricket soon begins, Where hopes of festive fame are quashed By heat of day and battered shins. The match is duly called a draw— The same each year—a yuletide law! The players shuffle back indoors To contemplate their catches missed; And soon, the room resounds with snores From those who try, but can’t resist The pull of sleep which follows play, For young and old on Christmas Day. A Time Beyond When time has fled away, as it must do, And tresses strand-by-strand amount to gray, There will emerge, as sure as night from day, A beauty redefined—yet no less true; For though your steps assume a slower pace, Each movement will effect a pleasure yet, Precluding any semblance of a threat That passing years may lead to loss of grace. And waking in the autumn of your days, Remember then, these words of honest praise: “Unlike the sun, which lessens after noon, The light you cast will ever be immune.” And in that moment, distant now from youth, You’ll know that Love spoke timeless words of truth. View from the Glade There may not have ever been __A brighter day than this, Unless consigned to Time’s abyss: __Forgotten—now unseen. Each piercing ray has purpose sure __In striking leaf or frond; Illuminating scenes beyond __And all that gleams before. Wherever eye decides to gaze, __On firmament or land, Reflections burn like desert sand __And shimmers fairly blaze. Mere photographs will never hold __Such moments, matte or gloss; As silver grains are at a loss __When asked to render gold. The midday Sun must soon descend __The westward skyway’s stair; And by degree, fill cooling air __With light of darker trend. Despite regret, I will not let __My mood transform to gray, Because the memory of the day __Shines on, and cannot set. David Watt is a writer from Canberra, the “Bush Capital” of Australia. He has contributed regularly to Collections of Poetry and Prose by Robin Barratt. When not working for IP (Intellectual Property) Australia, he finds time to appreciate the intrinsic beauty of traditional rhyming poetry.