Birthdays

One year the kids made a photo mosaic,
a diary from warmness to winter’s decaying:
the feeding milk bottles and reading daft stories,
my hair set in bobbles, the family guffawing;
teaching the beautiful game in the garden,
patiently building sandcastles and snowmen;
watching barbarians ruin my labours
as youngsters mutated to surly teenagers.
Now my dark locks are whitened and hidden;
that worshipping congregation has risen
as if all sins were forgot or forgiven
and I a declining church or religion,
desirous of presence and shows of devotion,
receiving lip-service and standard gift tokens.
.