Meandering in late December, BC (Before Covid) - 23rd Dec 2016

As I scan the flow of this long

meandering river, the crisp

December air bites my cheeks,

fills my lungs with quiet joy. 

A cloud of white seagulls

descend and on landing tuck

their wings, bob on the swell

like miniature buoys.  

A Cormorant flies inches above 

the water's surface; a black back-

slash across the shimmering shades

of grey, silver and greenish-brown.

The passing tugboat blows its horn,

leaves a long caret of frothing water.  

And as the Thames swells, waves

of water swallow the side of the 

promenade with satisfied gulps. 

The promenade merges into 

newly paved walkway, lined on

one side by woodland, on the other

by roughly chopped-back bush.  

A woman and two young girls 

break straight branches from 

a leafless tree: arms already

laden with red pyracantha berries.

I smile, imagine their front

room, a kindling fire and how

how they would later lay the

branches and berries on top

a grand wooden mantlepiece;

consummate their display 

with centred sprig of holly.

In Woolwich I head toward

the bus-stop, sit on the bench,

talk to a woman wearing 

a red woollen jumpsuit; the

red broken by patches of white 

snowflake. I smile: "You're 

dressed for Christmas!"

She smiles, cocks her head: 

"Hey my sister, do you believe

 in Christmas?  Chineke!  They 

want you to spend your money

and die.  For what?  This pagan 

tradition with mistletoe and so-so 

Christmas tree?  Do you know 

their tree is pagan?  See my trouble.  

Everyone thinks I'm

dressing for Christmas!"

Back at home I smile, 

recall the tall Christmas 

trees my father - an atheist - 

used to decorate in Nigeria 

with tinsel and cotton wool, 

colonial symbol of absent snow; 

stories of Baldur (god of light) 

and his slaying by mistletoe; 

of Yggdrasil, the ash tree 

whose branches stretched 

like a ladder to heaven.  

And then too of my Catholic 

mother inhaling wafts of burning 

incense at midnight mass; 

colourful damask gele, and 

long stiff shawls - those elegant 

women in communal dress 

with their children; kneeling 

on knees, as the drunk Irish priest 

slurred 'Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, 

ora pro nobis peccatoribus',

while harmattan blew in 

through open doors,

and gently laid the floor 

with fine-fine particles of dust.