Christmas is not for the birds

As festivities are in full swing, the poet Frieda Hughes wonders if the poor turkey might rather be dressed somehwat differently for dinner

The stag was dead when it fell from the sky

And hit the other shooter’s head;

Sprawled across the cinema wall

It was pheasant season at Fackham Hall.

I was escaping Christmas card writing,

Food shopping, present wrapping,

And the festive tree lighting.

My plans

Did not include peeling swedes and a fruit pudding

Until 24 hours before the advent calendars

Had opened their last tiny glitter doors,

And the final delivery of seasonal cards

Had hit the hallway floor.

Only then was I ready to gift wrap

And season the pork and the duck,

And peel and slice and chop and dice,

Thinking that perhaps

The turkey would rather be a guest

And arrive at dinner fully dressed

In all its feathers.