This poem, written a couple of years ago, invokes my Primary School Christmas parties held in the heat of an Australian summer. There were no rooms in the school to accommodate all of the children, so we had to march in the heat, up to the Civic Centre in our main street.
The title of the poem is, of course, a play on a much more famous poem.
A Child’s Christmas in New South Wales
Looking out for black snakes,
The big boys walk out front and thump long sticks upon the dusty tracks,
as if they were demented shepherds with their willow branch crooks.
With us, the third- and fourth-class kids, their flock,
excited bleating at the expectation of sugary treats and sugary drinks
and little boiled frankfurts double dipped in Rosella Sauce.
The crueller boys in sixth class, with their swagger and their new grown pubes,
Tell the little kids that it’s Mr Wilson, the headmaster, in the Santa Suit,
and it’s their Mum and Dad who bring the presents on Christmas Day
and the little kids puff out their lower lips and say they know,
while Mr Briggs who teaches 4A stands by the door,
longingly looking at the pub and wishing that half past three would come.
And the room will fill with laughter and shrill high-pitched voices,
and there will be games,
and there will be a call made for a bucket and some sand
to soak up the technicolour vomit caused by the running and the red drinks and frankfurts
and Clinkers and Sherbies and Party Pies and Ice Cream.
And at the sound of the three o’clock pit whistle shrieking across the valley,
through the ti tree scrub, where Christmas Trees are cut each year
and planted in buckets filled with bricks and hung with silver tinsel,
The big boys, having fended off the black snakes and the frankfurts,
walk out into the glaring sun as one and pretend they’re all grown up
now Primary School, like Santa Claus is behind them all forever.
I love this. So many similar memories. It invoked the heat of summer and the anticipation and the show of Christmas.