On A Snap of Christmas Whispers Past
Twenty-plus Decembers back, I took my toddler
to sit on Santašs lap, whisper in his ear
her wish, smile for the camera,
toddle off home to dress the Christmas tree.
As she smiled and whispered, Santa
whispered: Hi, Max, recognize me?
Alan! I whispered back. It was the poet Wearne,
our Browning of contemporary Melbourne.
Young still for the task of Santa,
but nodding and ho-ho-ing worthily.
What he earned in our sweltering December
funded more monologues next year.
Decembers come and go,
Išm shopping still where
that snap was snapped in the hot mall air.
Santas of the warm south still show
toddlers how to whisper Christmas wishes.
The truest art is still the most feigning.
Alan and I our time shortens,
our art especially his lengthens.
8.30am Wednesday 17 December 2003
Max Richards, Melbourne
[I must now send a copy to Alan - current address, please...?]
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