The Present by John Mole

From The Spectator, 23/30 December 1989

The Present
by John Mole

He stepped into the room, permitted,
Seen, not heard, His father stood
With glass in hand but sober-suited:
Mother, has the boy y been good?

I think he has. Her voice came faintly
From the long sofa where she sat
Between the aunt no one called Auntie
And the uncle who'd seen to that.

So, he shall have his present. Something
Rustled in a dark recess
Then silence, and then whispering,
Then sudden light, then there it was —

The rocking horse, magnificent,
With stirrups, reins, a crimson bow
Tied round the saddle — heaven-sent
To prove the love they could not show.

He took one step, then dared another,
Folded his hands and bowed his head:
Thank you father. Thank you mother.
Thank you. That was all he said.