A long time ago, on a Christmas eve
(of a Christmas long forgotten)
awake in the sleeping house,
she crept downstairs to sit, curled in her father’s big chair in the dark,
beside the still warm Rayburn (opening the door a crack to let out the embers’ glow).
Watched the fire fade, breathed in the pine scent of the tree,
until it grew too cold.
Then slipped back up to bed again, and sleep,
till bright day.
Copyright © 2014 Fliss Watts