Roy Kelly

Proof and Belief

On the hearth of the working fireplace, the flags dusted with ash, we leave mince pies and a bottle of beer that Father Christmas might feed his face and wet his whistle while he is here, refreshment before he has to dash, having deposited the mystery of wrapped packages a further time in his series of deceptive appearances, the continuing collusion, what you see and what you get, and how they rhyme with the evidence of disappearances: the empty bottle a child lifts from the grate; the mince pies missing from a crumb-specked plate.

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