My mother opens the scullery door
on Christmas Eve, 1954,
to empty the dregs 
of the tea-pot on the snoy flags.
A wind out of Siberia
carries such voices as will carry
through to the kitchen –

Someone mutters a flame from lichen
and eats the red-and-white Fly Agaric
while the others hunker in the dark,
taking it in turn
to drink his mind-expanding urine.
One by one their reindeer nuzzle in.

My mother slams the door
on her star-cluster of dregs
and packs me off to bed.
At 2 a.m. I will clamber downstairs
to glimpse the red-and-white
up the chimney, my new rocking horse
as yet unsteady on its legs.