Old Lady Christmas Shopping

She gathers up her meager Christmas gifts

And stows them safely in her shopping bag,

She mumbles to herself and nods her head,

Pulls off a little tell-tale bargain tag,

Counts off the items on a pencilled slip,

Enjoying to the full her shopping trip.

For one she buys a tiny beaded purse

And someone gets a hankie frail and sheer,

A little favourite nephew gets a book

Where knights in armour and a cavalier

Ride out to battle clad in bright array,

In all the trappings of a by-gone day.

She looks at crystal with a longing eye,

Gloats over china of a loved design,

Holds up a figurine with cautious hands,

Buys Christmas wrappings and a spool of twine,

Gets a stuffed dog with little scarlet paws

A tiny reindeer and a Santa Claus.

For one short season of the age-long year

She lets her generous heart hold happy sway,

Buying her little gifts with careful hands,

To match the joyful spirit of the day,

Denying her own need that she might share

The love that is like music in the air.

~ Edna Jaques

Reminds me of my dad ...

I came across this poem by Canadian poet, Edna Jaques today. It stirred some happy memories of my dad (1912-2005) who was always an early riser.

Growing up, his cheerful voice was always the first thing that I'd hear hear every morning. Often, he would sing a little ditty about the greatness of getting up in the morning, and how good it is to stay in bed. By the time I'd drag my sleepy self to the kitchen, he would have his cup of tea (always in a china cup, because he insisted that there was no other way to have a good cup of tea), and breakfast would be ready on the table.

EARLY RISER

He rises in the still and quiet dawn

Before the trucks and buses start to run,

Sweeps off the sidewalk ... sprays a little bush,

Turns his old face and watches for the sun.

He sees it rise beyond a clump of trees

And something in his heart is strangely stirred,

As rosy tinted clouds bedeck the sky,

And morning news is passed from bird to bird.

He starts the fire and puts the kettle on,

Putters around the kitchen, dries a cup,

Brings in the paper ... listens to the news,

Calls up the stairs for others to get up.

The peace of night is still upon his heart,

The fragrance of a dream is with him still,

The mystery of half remembered sleep,

Like purple shadows on a distant hill.

All these are his ere other folk arise

A fortress in his heart, serene and strong,

A spring of water softly welling up,

That feeds his thirsty soul the whole day long.

***

Love you Dad.

Miss you!