Rooftops

 

 

Brushing soot off his tunic (new, wipe clean, breathable material) he surveys the rooftops.

He belches, the last lot’s food offerings (whisky, milk and breakfast cereal) playing havoc with his digestive system.

 

Whistling for the team (trained to perfection by the reindeer whisperer) he prepares for the off.

Straightening, the man of dreams consults his watch

 

Hours gained by time zones stretch the working night

and he has had much practice, since that first open handed gesture

to ease the plight of those within his care,  

but dawn approaches and it’s a close run thing.

 

Tired now, like a benevolent Flying Dutchman, he longs for ease, 

a return to the safe harbour of his bishopric, to share the peace, to celebrate the eucharist, to contemplate and pray.

He shrugs and coughs, climbs back on his sleigh.

 

Duty calls and the world needs Christmas cheer.

To disappoint the children would be to serve the self he sacrificed 

for them and for his Lord. 

To claim a higher calling would be mere presumption.

So. Back to his dwindling present hoard.

 

Back to his sleigh, his elves, and all the accoutrements of office.

Back to the growing myth, the night sky and the snow.

Back to the mince pies, scotch and warming coffees.

Back to the hearty laugh, the ‘ho, ho, ho’

 

He straightens up, his spirits lift, 

speaks to the reindeer, says 

‘Come on, guys. With gifts we celebrate a gift; 

so no more slacking, 

let’s hit the skies’.