The Christmas Shed

It was late afternoon on Christmas Day
with light fading and flakes falling
when the three of us raced through the copse
where rhododendrons and holly bushes
bent low under their burden of fresh snow.
Gasping, we skidded to a stop .
at the edge of the estate’s allotments.
A bitter, whining wind made us shiver
as it whipped across the frozen earth.
‘No one’s about.
Come on!

Slipping and skating we dashed for Jacko’s shed
and at the back crawled through a hole
where the old boards had rotted away.
Inside it was dry. The air was still.
We peered as daylight filtered dimly
through the fly-spattered, cobwebbed window,
and breathed the shed’s special smell
of pine, creosote, paraffin, and sawdust.
Fear of discovery made us whisper.
Let's see if theyre f
still there.

Carefully we moved garden implements
that were stacked in a corner.
Dried soil fell and crunched beneath our boots
as we shifted rakes, forks, spades, and hoes,
and there was Smoky and her four kittens
warm in a bed of worn gloves and jerseys.
Like the Three Kings we knelt and offered
our Christmas gifts — turkey scraps, ham, a sausage.
Smoky arched and purred and ate hungrily.
“The kittens
are still blind.’

The food vanished. We watched in silence
as the grey cat lay down and her mewling kittens
guzzled greedily at the milk bar.
Tt’s late.’
We replaced the implements
and crept out of Jacko’s old shed.
Like shadows we hared for the cover of the copse.
Chilled to the bone we reached our estate
where Christmas lights were flashing. We split.
‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘Yeah.
‘See you.