Ivor Happen and the Christmas Question | The search for Santa is on! | Poems In Pen

Ivor Happen loves Santa Claus, and is determined to prove he's as real as grass, as certain as clouds. He settles on a scheme to give Santa a gift of his own: a giant Christmas hamper, which just also happens to contain something else... none other than our Ivor Happen himself!
But the wait is long. Stuck there waiting, quiet as critters, will Ivor really meet Father Christmas?
It hit Ivor Happen in the middle of class:
The solution to the question he endlessly asked
Of his parents, teachers, uncles, aunts,
That he set out in letters, sometimes whispered to plants:
Is he real? The big man with bottomless gifts,
Who sleds through the skies, rollicking and swift,
And bellyfully laughs in a snazzy red fit,
But... was revered, it appeared, chiefly by kids.
Which was a thought as fishy and unhappy
As Ivor could possibly have (poor chappie)
So he thought no more thoughts and got to it, snappy,
A solution splendiferously tricky and trappy.
He would snare the old fella, outwit him somehow,
And (as much as he loved him) show the whole town
That Claus was a person as solid as ground
As real as grass, as certain as clouds.
He read up as far as little chaps can
On spying, and hunting, some organised gangs,
And started to scheme, and plot, and plan
A ruse that would sure apprehend the man.
He thought long as tinsel about how to do it,
Mulled hearths with trip wires, minced pies with glue bits,
Yet none of it seemed quite right for pursuing,
After all, things so fiddly could prove his undoing.
But that’s when he thought of a present for Santa,
Cause who ever tries to enchant the enchanter?
Something real wowza, a gifting bonanza:
And nothing’s as bonanza as a big Christmas hamper.
But that hamper could also contain something else:
None other than our Ivor Happen himself,
Ready with polaroid, dressed as an elf,
One click then all doubts at long last could be shelved.
He stretched out a leg and and reached for the lid
But - abruptly - it struck him, just as he did
Something had entered that room where he hid
(A feeling he remembered as long as he lived).
There was a big shwoosh, from somewhere beyond,
And somehow a breeze blew and the notes of the song
‘Jingle Bells’ rumbled on the old clock gong
A bright light shone for a mo’ - then was gone.
Ivor stretched upwards, nudging out slow:
Peered out shaky; saw only shadow,
Though, that shadow really was fully grown
Shaped like a mountain, or a megalith stone.
And that mountain was... heaving, strongly browed
With a face framed by cumulus, looking down,
And eyes that sparkled like lightning in clouds
Above a vast chest like a great eiderdown.
“What have we here?” it asked wryly, deep,
A voice that would outmanoeuvre sleep,
And laughter lines so broad and steep
Like rippling ravines as he started to speak.
Ivor was speechless, stuttered a nothing,
C-could not fathom (standing there blushing )
That this was the chap he was after: his stuffing
Was knocked clean out by events we’re discussing.
Then he thought it: Camera! And he squirted round,
Fumbled in darkness, down on the ground
For a polaroid camera that could not be found,
While the shadow it vanished, as swiftly as sound.
Still he turned and said ‘cheese!’, did Ivor, nonplussed,
And clicked in the air like a fellow concussed
Capturing nothing with his handful of dust,
Knowing in an instant his plan was a bust.
Santa! thought Ivor, still truthfully reeling,
Searching within for affirmative feeling,
Was that really him? As tall as the ceiling?
And as he was sat, afraid he was dreaming
He considered the presents, rotating them over,
And was half on the way to regaining composure
When a hand like a pillow touched down on his shoulder
And there was that Claus as big as a boulder.
My boy, he said with a glad bass boom,
That ruffled the cards and rippled the room,
What can it be that’s so vital to you
That you’re up to no good at a quarter to two?
But, dearest: there’s also so much to be said
For maybes and myst’ry, for magical threads
That can’t quite be sewn up - just relished instead.
Merry Christmas my lad, I must to my sled!
And voom, little Ivor was back in his bed,
Feeling quite mirthful through scratching his head
Not terribly sure if what Claus had just said
Was a good thing a true thing or something he’d read
Half remembered in dreaming or heard on a show:
If what happened did happen he just couldn’t know.
And there - all along - was the camera, stowed
Right plumb on the bedside, peaceful as snow.
The clock gonged three and Ivor lay low
And gazed sleepy now at the frosty window,
And as he was cosying from head down to toes,
On the breeze - yes surely - he heard Ho ho, ho ho.