Contributions on the subject of Buried Treasure for the November meeting were wide ranging, including an Umbrian childhood memory that we all thought was autobiographical but had in fact been researched in a couple of days, a Wiltshire village political romance, Avebury, a dead hamster and finding a new sibling. Andrew finished off the session, the last this year, with a suitably festive poem:
The family tree is 20 years old, Bought when dad was younger And thinner And had more hair, So I’m told. It’s dragged from the loft At the same time each year, And plonked in the corner With reverent good cheer. Dressed in baubles and trinkets, Some old And some new, The quantity varies But is never too few. From its prime vantage point, In its garish disguise, It stands and observes Silent and wise. It’s seen Grandad get drunk and set fire to his hat, When Dad punched the milkman And chased off a rat. Nanna Kay’s final Christmas, Jim asleep on the cat And when mum drank that absinthe And snogged Aunty Pat. However, Above all, It’s there to stand guard Over the pile at its base of paper and card. That contains within wonders Too many to measure That is for a child Tinsel covered Buried Treasure
Happy Christmas, everyone!
Devizes Writers' Group 