Almost Christmas. Sarah’s at work, and the older
two are with their grandparents, shoulder
to waist in the kitchen, helping Mum prepare
festive treats. I’ve delivered Bethany to daycare,
wondered sheepishly how her teachers do it, serene
in matching t-shirts, unsung queens
of composure, patience their virtue, hale and discreet,
tireless shepherdesses who know the bleat
of each child. It’s for them I’m making biscotti.
Elvis is singing from my phone. Scotty’s
on guitar getting real real gone.
Ain’t nothin’ rhymes with gone
the way Elvis sings it. Orange zest, a teaspoon
of almond essence, “Money Honey”, “Blue Moon”.
In the December garden, the solstice wind gusts
as if equinoctial, bustles and thrusts
the pōhutukawa branches, the kōwhai, skittles
the recycling bin, calls time on the little
lemons that cling for life to their cupped holders.
The oven-timer beeps. The King smoulders.
The wind’s a breezy Herod menacing innocents.
Orange zest, almond essence, cocoa as incense.
