Mrs Fern

How many Christmases of Mrs Fern?
I've come to depend that every tree
hid her presents in its haunches:
Dandy annuals, selection boxes, Parker pens.

But we were kids then
and cared little for Mrs Fern,
the elderly neighbour who moved away.
Unconcerned that the parcels were seamless,

the Wise Men endless
and faithful whichever side we tore.
Or how she willed on her knotted fingers,
fireplace flickering our muddied boys' grin.

Each bright Christmas Eve, drowsing
and near sleep, whether or not she knew
these would be the last she wrapped,
her hands glinting briefly with spilt gold

as she made the final folds
of shimmering paper.
Unconditionally, like writing letters
that will never be answered.