Santactus

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In Tesco at the moment, you can buy a real cactus dressed as Father Christmas. A photo of my Santa Cactus (Santactus) featured at the end of a poem posted earlier this week.

I named it Santactus then realised that this sounded like the name of some old Roman god. When all the other fleeting, festive frivolities have passed away, this cactus will remain. Standing tall.

Santactus

Tinsel falls from trees once trim
Baubles shatter, lights grow dim
Candles lie in waxy heaps but

Santactus irrecusably remains

Green wreaths rot in glittering piles
The neon reindeer lose their smiles
Robins lie in bloodstained heaps but

Santactus irrefutably remains

Christmas jumpers now unravel
Sleighs decay, unfit for travel
Snowmen lie in melted heaps but

Santactus irreducibly remains

Wrapping paper patterns fade
Handcrafted Christmas cards degrade
Ribbons lie in tangled heaps but

Santactus irrepressibly remains

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Ironically, Santactus actually died shortly after the completion of this poem. But another will rise.

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