These visitors look down on me
because I’m an artificial tree.
The real thing, resin, needles and all,
is more substantial, much more tall
and lifts its cardboard star and lights
to truly impressive, Biblical heights.
Yet these same people aerosol
its needles – just in case they fall
and ring the carpet round their tree
with a crown of thorns by Epiphany.
(if they’d the Jesus Job to do
they’d certainly use spray-on glue,
less to save Our Lord distress
than save themselves the unholy mess.)
They forget that once a year
I re-emerge, I re-appear.
Which, in its way, is as fair a reflection
as any you’ll see of the Resurrection.
The real thing, be it ever so tall,
pines away, resin, needles and all,
and as my waiting days begin,
it’s left to rot beside the bin.
Nothing real is long the rage
in this hopelessly artificial age.