A faithful record of one of my flights of fancy
The Yule log sits in bright red embers,
as Molly remembers a rabbit in the grass.
All activity passes in the contemplation
of a straw filled nativity.
The ticking clock talks of time gone by.
Old socks to fill and space neath the tree.
Year’s end comes nearer home,
and someone puts the poker in brown ale.
Wassail, the Saxon call to feast.
Hail Gabriel and cherubs in the East.
We hurry on toward the Virgin birth,
and hear the choir standing near the earth.
Tolling bells are telling out good news.
Muffled shepherds shuffle to the church.
A midnight clear and infinitely cold,
to start the greatest story ever told.
Come dawn the mystery is gone.
And primal joy gives way to pagan rite.
Each Magus standing vigil in the night,
is wise enough to revel in the day.
Nowell, Wassail, the cheer we hear.
A toast in bubbles, Kir and ginger wine.
Fine dining sure, and mincemeat pies.
All happy laughs and swelling childlike cries.