Christmas lights in Ludlow

Kinton in December

Poem written for Bible study Christmas do

‘Christmas isn’t what it used to be’

That’s what old folks used to say.

And now, grey-permed, joint-stiff, home-alone

I find it’s so.

Weary, but contented to let memory paint pictures

Of days that seemed permanently cold, as we dressed

Thumb-fumbling by the stove,

Bringing bulging, mysterious stockings

To open; wide-eyed at the tiny, innocent treats.

Then to church, blowing on mittened fingers,

‘Big’ presents of comic annuals, paints, dolls, yet unopened.

Home again for dinner – ‘here, you can help

Make bread sauce; stick cloves in this onion, so.’

Simple fare, but rare in its appearing only then:

The turkey, sprouts, coin-concealing pudding

Spread amidst happy, paper-hatted faces,

Even Grandpa white-haired and ruddy-cheeked,

Smiling now by the cave-pitted fire.

Those days, nostalgia’s bright offerings,

Smile at me,

Quietly, alone, but not lonely.

Because it seems, childish excitement long hushed,

I hear more clearly now,

The cry of a Jewish baby, long ago, but very near.

Sitting on Offa's Dyke

Winter Walk