Boxing Day morning

Lying in bed listening to my liver
sing to my kidneys
songs of destruction
and of joy.
Listening to the shallow breathing
of the girl in my bed,
the baby girl, our Christmas girl
who I did not drop last night
nor did I offend her
after most of a bottle of champagne
burgundy, three memorable glasses
of frozen pudding wine
quaffed one, two, three.
This was when the damage occurred
and I ceased to concentrate.

Now I lie warm in my bed
beside my girl.
The window is blind with frost
and beneath the yew tree
birds congregate
‘this ground is hard as rock’
they scream at one another,
‘don’t panic, improvise!’

December 2010

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