xmas without snow

its roast pork and crackling on a 39 degree day

it’s a cold beer at breakfast, baked eggs, ham on the barbie, the scent of mango, pressies swapped in glee

its running under the sprinklers on a rottnest front lawn

its xmas eve, the four of us still wrapping presents at 2AM, drunk, giggling like kids – the pile under the tree a metre deep

its beach cricket after lunch, he’s out!

its baked potatoes in a caravan, drop-ins welcome

its all the prawns, all the prawns

its laughing at nanna

its life without grandads and grandmas

it’s the nine of us bleary-eyed at 630AM, my turn at santa

it’s a loungeroom ocean of wrapping paper

it’s an overfilled rubbish bin by 10

it’s a bloated gut, its another wine, its xmas sweat

it’s ham. Its ham. Its ham.

it’s the stupid cracker jokes, and thin pink xmas hat stuck to my forehead in the thick heat, cheers!

it’s the xmas eve santa report on the tv news

its lost in a rush of angry shopping mall missions, tinsel in october

its mum’s snapper in the weber

its spray on snow, on a plastic tree

it’s a stolen gnangara pine

it’s a deflated snowman in the afternoon haze

it’s the 2 hour drive to nannas

its waking up to a dad-built fort, with all the little knights placed ready to fight

its next-door’s kids in the street wobbling on a new bike, bells ringing

its squeals of splashy delight in the bluest pool, the white xmas sun

its xmas without snow

its xmas