Driving off the ferryboat
a group of blind people,
dressed Brazilian jute sacks
still smelling of coffee beans,
banged on the bonnet of my car
demanding eyes
so they could see the many shades of seasons.
I threw them a handful of eyes
and they fought amongst themselves,
hands flailing wildly in the air
naked feet trampling about in mud
squashing them in the process.
Drove through a town full of coloured lights
where angry people celebrated Christmas
by breaking shop windows,
tossing back gifts given by relatives they didn’t like.
At home, my uncle sat in an armchair drinking lager
politely got up and left,
quite rightly, he has been dead for twenty years.
A little girl, in a sweet Dutch national costume,
asked if she could climb up to the shiny star
on top of the Christmas tree?
Sure! She did and disappeared.
Her mother came,
cried bitterly looking for a daughter
she hadn’t seen since leaving the maternity clinic three years ago.
On a green plastic table lay a sweaty goat cheese,
hungry I cut a piece
it tasted of damp wool
and reeked like car tyres
after a high speed collision.
The crying, young woman was my mother before I was born,
didn’t recognise me
told me to leave
since I had no business being here yet.
Driving back through the town,
to catch the ferry,
black horses galloped through empty streets
and by the docks
a lone harbour light kept flinging itself senselessly into a stygian sea.