Plastic Tree

My hand slips as I try to slip the star
Onto the top of the tree. This year,
I've gone for a different approach.
This year, the tree glows white,
And it won't take traditionalism's reproach.

Interspersed with almost transparent bristles,
This fir immersed in it's own mild light,
No need for extra bells and whistles,
As my hands run through it's hair,
It makes it's own Christmas night,
Although perhaps it's role reversed,
It stands out, well in sight,
Dives headfirst into public dismissal,
And dries itself whilst being submersed,
It's black and white dizzying with delight.

My upside down, wrong way around,
My rotting, misguided, vulgar pine,
Has my undivided attention unbound,
It's provided endless decoration, unconfined.

So when I missed the top,
And as my star fell, down a few degrees,
I let it perch there, perkily askew.
And for once, it seems that I am pleased,
With my not-so-impressive debut.