Leaving East Stoke to see my parents for Christmas, looking at Christmas Cards ...

We stayed at my mum and dad's on Boxing Day - we'd left East Stoke late Christmas Day afternoon - floodwater swirled over the water meadows - it was dark by four thirty - rain drops patterned the windscreen of the red Peugeot - 

Earlier that day, I'd stood upon the bridge, listening to the swollen river, gazing up at the clouds - swans gathered near the fisherman's bench, which marked the bank of a meander - in the summer, I'd sunbathe there, my eyes half closed - I'd picture sirens, swimming amongst the reeds - they were sinuous as eels, watchful as pike -

The level crossing gates were open - Big Bob sat inside the hut - there were no trains - Bob's Mitsubishi Warrior pick-up was parked in the lane -

The M 27 was almost empty - Portsmouth was a shining magic city - we dropped Tessa off for her night shift at Victoria Lodge - 

My heart ached when I saw my parents - time goes by said my dad - he sat in his armchair like a delicate bird - my mum remembered how she'd loved dancing - I was in a different world -

Christmas cards covered every surface, each one with its well intentioned message - 

Perhaps, in some dream, I would enter this same lounge, piled high with cards, too many to count - they were all the cards my mum and dad had ever been sent - dust and shadows moved towards me -