After

Busy people chase the afternoon
The loquacious gabble, burdened
With afterthoughts
And jet designers place afterburners
Well…aft

But nothing much compares
With living for the after-life

Having a destination after ‘this’
In mind

Is it a world that’s been washed,
Tumbled dried, smelling fresh,
Ironed by a celestial being
All creases flattened,
All wrinkles stretched,
All tears wiped away?

Or is it like a snake shedding its skin
Or a metamorphosis
That longest of primary school words
The glistening caterpillar cocoon
Fastened on a stick in a jam jar
Is that what we are? Waiting?
A dim version of what is to come?

A primary school world
Waiting to be elevated
Away with shorts and on with trousers
No more chapped thighs
Lowered into hot baths
Red skin now replaced with the mud
Of rugby fields, of men and boys?

Let me tell you
It’s the fourth day
After Christmas
Since the angel on top of the tree
Winked
And reminded us of the
Heavenly hosts in good voice
Welsh maybe, or Italian?
Or from the four corners
Belting out

‘Glory to God in the Highest
And peace, goodwill towards men’

The afterglow of Christmas
When the afterlife
Discarded it’s afterness
And glory in the highest
Fastened itself
To the lowest,
The least,
The lost.