We feed it year-long.
Its sixpence heart waits for the great reveal
(through summer's parched dominion,
through another bastard year of inferior cinnamon)
and mellows with every month
and every lavish swig.
Every hand in the house had stirred it.
And as another Christmas shivers in
we take it from its cupboard home,
dense as a neutron star and burning blue.
A Molotov pudding, a brandy sun –
every hand in the house presents a spoon.