A Week before Christmas
You are the maid,
whistling, working in the basement.
At ten, you breathe rich coffee
you must break off to prepare.

You are the lady, slumped by screens.
You watch the figures dance before your eyes.
You wonder how you will ever feed the maid,
light as a lamb on the stair.

Alison Brackenbury

If you have any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear them.