Christmas Haibun

AnElephantCant forget Santa time
So he writes this piece of whimsy
He is still plotting
To hang up his stocking
Although he does not have a chimney

Seasons Greetings by Phil Burns

Xmas in Isipingo

Life in South Africa in 1958 is quite different from the 21^st Century.
There is no television.
Even Science Fiction has not invented video games.
Giants such as Orwell, Huxley and Bradbury cannot conceive such things.
Entertainment is home made.
But it is Christmas.
Hands trembling, he unwraps the long thin parcel.
His heart leaps.
A bow!
A real bow, not a stick with a string on it.
A bow of polished wood, a shaped hand grip, coloured cord.
And arrows, sleek and shiny.
For a pre-teen boy, it is a gift from the gods.
His father follows him outside, smiling, laughing as he fumbles with the string and the arrow’s notch.
Let me show you, he says.
The boy is disappointed, but worships his father.
He hands over his treasure, reluctant but obedient.
His father, an engineer, a powerful man, extends the string fully.
Too fully.
The bow snaps.
Christmas is over.
He never again feels quite the same about his father.

childhood dreams
shatter too soon
too often too easily