- Gina Douthwaite
- Last Updated: 27 November 2008
Dust dances in December`s dreary light
up in the attic where the mice, at night,
are heard to chase, claws scrabbling on the floor
and scratching at the chest whose stiff-joint jaw
yawns with a creak as rusty locks snap back
and children lift its lid to seek a sack
of rough, red cloth that bulges, clinks within,
and smells of pine leaves - sharper than a pin
on fumbling fingers. In the darkening room
a thrill of tinsel spills into the gloom.