Saturday morning in the shopping mall,
early November, my eye falls
on the reinstated Nativity scene,
rough plaster animals, Holy
Family like unwelcome migrants,
Wise Men behaving anomalously.
Next, nearby, a vast shiny
green red and gold contraption ready
to serve as Santa's cave.
His old throne awaits his advent.
The p.a. system forces Christmas carols
in all ears. Till - cutting across,
comes a bugle call, and a voice intoning
At the going down of the sun...
Right now of course it's just eleven a.m.
Older folk freeze, stand at attention.
Most aren't listening, or
don't know what it's for.
I put down the bargain book
I was fingering, and note I've yet again
neglected to take a poppy
from the old man with a tray.
Max Richards
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