8 am, Christmas morning,
In bursts Sis, without warning.
Clutching pressies from the tree,
Eyes a-sparkling, full of glee.
Mum is busy making stuffing,
Getting worried over nothing.
Anxious that the spuds won’t brown.
Her brow is now a nervy frown.
Dad is in an odd-sized top,
Not got from any High Street shop.
It’s a present Grandma knitted,
Could look good…if it fitted!
As we take our seats to dine,
Dad uncorks a sparkling wine.
Glasses raised, we make a toast,
To Mum’s delicious looking roast.
Dad’s already started carving,
The speed he cuts suggests he’s starving!
Plates are piled to the rafters,
Christmas pud to come for afters!
Grandma’s telling dreadful jokes,
Dad laughs hard and almost chokes…
…upon a big ol’ brussel sprout
That he’s able to cough out!
After lunch we feast on chocs,
Watching re-runs on the box.
Grandma picks out softer centres,
Hard ones always ruin her dentures.
Sister’s sitting, happy drawing,
Dad is sleeping, happy snoring.
His hat’s just sat across his eyes,
He’s just missed out on hot mince pies!
Mum’s beginning to relax,
As we’re sat in coloured hats.
Grandma’s getting through the sherries,
Cheeks now look like winter berries.
And as the fire keeps on roaring,
Dad continues happy snoring.
Hours come then slip away,
To bring the end of Christmas Day.
But with my gift from Mum and Dad,
I’ve captured all the fun we’ve had.
A brand new camera to remember,
The twenty fifth day of December.