O Christmas tree! Thy leaves are so unchanging...
Poet and artist Frieda Hughes writes an ode to her very own sculpted, steadfast branches: ones that remain green in summer’s clime – and through the snows of winter-time...
The town centre wooden seat had a downhill view of shopping throngs
Stamping the chilled precinct slabs towards me, beneath an afternoon sun
That bleached clouds to a watery consistency. Drinking latte
From a café boasting a ‘culture of warmth and belonging
Where everyone is welcome’ – the staff had chatted, but only to each other –
I watched a teenager, who appeared to be female, walking with a person
Who may have been her mother, and a small dog that may have been
Half of one thing and another, talking about brow gel. Two
Eight-year-old girls discussed the “very old penny” one held, announcing
It was 1983. I smiled at the cockapoos, terriers and spaniels, and things
With curls and short legs on leads. An elderly woman with purple hair
Pushing her own wheelchair past shop fronts uphill, was overtaken by
Two teenage boys expressing their desire to eat a sexually active burger.
Going home, a hundred glittering tractors at a rally, swaddled in tinsel,
Coloured lights and holly wreaths, their fancy horns sounding a cacophony,
Reminded me to decorate my metal Christmas tree,
The one that saves me every January from the defenestration
Of a once living thing. It remains sculpted and solid throughout the year,
Strong enough to hang my hopes on, and the heavy baubles
That would crush any other kind of greenery.