An hour of hard driving,
we arrive in a
cough of red dust.
We have come to take
Christmas photos, a small
gesture for big-hearted workers.
Coy children peer from behind
adult legs, then disappear into the
day beneath giggles.
Ushered inside a mud brick
hut, the only light peeks through
low open doors and unsealed cracks.
A fool would surmise Christmas does
not live here; this house
devoid of trimmings.
Children return wrapped
in dusty suits
and faded satin.
As the family settles, there is no
mistaking, the flash of pride, as
we expose Christmas.