The sea was limply swilling around the bay
In the snow-bitten air
As the Dorset mummers prepared to put on their play.
It seemed everyone had stopped to hear.
The thrumming tambours and bashing of tin cans
Rowdy along the quiet Sunday seafront,
A beer-induced ruddiness spreading a breathy good cheer
The ancient, outlandish, ridiculous flummery
Flashing through a crowd, hungry for all that.
"Here come I, Old Father Time" cried a man in a battered yellow hat
And a soft, beautifully intricate kimono
That once must have been a treasure.
A man in horns, tights and leather flying jacket
Danced among the bollards
Shouting “Keep off me schmatter it cost a packet!”
As a loping woman in fairy lights and boots
Waves her violin and lisps "Give room, give room"
And give me room to rise
And I'll show you such activity
On this merry Christmastide.
Activity of youth, activity of age
Such activity has never been seen
Or acted on a stage.
And by the bus stop, clad in black and fur
The slasher prowled and growled, delighted no doubt,
By the thought of slashing in his Dorset burr
And terrifying children.
A man in garish Crimbo jumper topped by crown of green
Starts the crowd a dancing (like he didn’t think he’d be seen).
And a man in a nearby guesthouse watching for snow
Sighed a sigh of centuries, as he gazed from his window
Reviewing how his year had passed,
Of what he had to let go
And wondered if his broken heart
Missed him much, or no?
Could he be a better father, uncle, brother
Left without heart amidst all his deep sorrow?
As the bells and flashing lights
Of the merry mummers passed
Like a cluster of crows
Stoking up the fires of their bravado
With chaotic percussion.
The man grabbed his coat and set to follow.
And in the warmth of a seaside pub,
Rough and sticky with spilled cheer and blood
The ancient folk tale revealed its own pain
Good morning, ladies and gentlemen all
And a merry Christmas to you all
I am a noble doctor, both stout and good
With my created hand I can purge the blood
Cure the stitch, the itch
The palsy or the gout
All pains within, all pains without,
Silenced by a curvaceous Saint George
Wielding her mighty light sabre
(from a stall along the prom)
Decrying the crook and climbing on tables
Niftily saving her ample breast from
Deftly clutching fingers.
Heroically, rising from legend and myth
With the promise of rescue, healing,
O hold your hand
O hold your hand
And let these quarrels fall
For here we get our bones all smashed
For no cause at all.
And the men at the bar, the women by the fruit machine
Eyes misted with memory and unfulfilled dreams
Slapped their hands, stomped their feet, and joined in with a roar
Because wasn’t this merriment what Christmas stood for?
And the man from the guesthouse, scrolled through his phone
As if Christmas was in there, as he joined with the throng.
Impromptu caroling, all drunken and stout
Erupted as the mummers stealthily saw themselves out.
No asking for dues, no shaking of hats, they left -
Back to the hospital, back to their shifts
Back to a Christmas impossibly lived.
Christmas Mummers
© JulietB