Funmilola’s poem really heralds our own Christmas. Gawd, I’ll miss my white clothes.


We had our own white Christmas

when the hazy fog descended on a dusty dawn

when the sky shone colorless before the sun could rise

and the tall trees shrouded themselves in pallid clouds

We had the air of Christmas

when the mist hid the houses from our view

when the cold dry air hugged our ashen faces

and paused, in transit to crack our rosy lips

We had our own nice Christmas

when greeting cards hung from curtain drapes

when hampers arrived laden with delicious delicacies

and pots cooked chicken instead of beef

We had our feel of Christmas

when the hawkers peddled bright stringy decorations

when the streets rang with yuletide music

and plastic trees shone with twinkling lights

So when children sing of snow and cold and frost

of silent nights and holy lights

Then I remember

that though we watched the King’s College Boys choir


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