Birthday

Birthday

I watched the meat grinder,
As little curls toppled into bowls,
waiting to be dressed with salt and pepper,
then deftly primped and patted
into pockets of cream-coloured pasta.
Birthdays began with food,
A busy, bustling of sauces on the stove,
biscotti in the oven and
dishes in the sink.

We corralled carpenters’ horses into the garden,
then settled them with table tops and white linen.
Amid the vines, a crop of coloured globes
Grew overnight , ready to ripen as the sun set.
Revved up by the music of chinking glasses,
we tumbled in and out of chairs tasting
panini and olives while on the run from
cheek-pinching fingers and lipstick kisses.

Lights from the Christmas tree twinkled meekly
inside the house as the blue black night backdropped
a million stars – some leaving early, shooting off to other
parties when no-one was looking.
Pink-cheeked men let loose merry belly laughter,
Rocking back and forth in wooden chairs
- a host of happy Santas telling stories of faraway places.
A music man settled on the verandah to capture the spotlight
And ladies drew up their skirts a little to dance around him,
summer moths drawn to his melody.

He appeared from out of the darkness, bolder than my father
but looking just like him – a crisp white shirt matching his smile,
black hair waving at us like a flag to get our attention.
Breathing in through his nose, he kissed the air and a
blazing fire ignited, a single sizzling candle frothing forth,
all the love in the world.