Christmas in Acton

Five o'clock darkness
in a damp December,
red glare of a bonfire
tearing the shadows
from sick laburnums,
bare square of garden
and broken-down van.
God-bereft Acton
where Camelot
makes man.

Inside, cheap prints and
a frayed carpet,
and Borges by his bed.
And a skint hyacinth
toppling in a
tea-cup.
"Hold me," I said.

I was almost sure
he wouldn't.
Two words strung between us like a tightrope,
and he suddenly got up
and walked it,
precarious on his neat feet.

It was only seconds,
I suppose,
but centuries snapped like
matchwood
and whole dynasties collapsed
while he pressed me
against the musty ridges
of his home-knit sweater,
and I smelt pear-drops
on his breath.

Outside, the puny bonfire
had consumed all Acton-
the flames were candles
and the twigs were palms-
and suddenly a star was shining
over two-for-one Tesco's,
and God was lying in a manger,
and I was crying in his crazy
blazing arms.