I stand under the shine of plastic stars

the tars of dead trillions are turned

back into themselves, ersatz-green

and stillborn in disinfected air.

There, a girl frolics ruddy and spirited

through the woody images of festivity

her eyes more beautiful than the baubles

that hang their reflection.

Spent radio-prayers of white Christmases

materialise as toxic spray-on snow

summoned by the automated dance

and the reverberated chant of cocahohohola!

This feast fleshed with family and friends

of joy and peace and goodwill to all

is wrapped up and counterfeit sold

back to discount discontent.

By Dion Dobrzynski for The Bubble’s Creative Competition on the theme of ‘Christmas’.