The last of the winter light had leached from the sky,
Seven pm on the shortest day of the year;
Hurrying through bustling crowds of late night shoppers,
She goes, homeward bound, worried frown creasing her brow
A stray lock of hair escapes from her wooly hat,
Carrier bag with parcels of scarlet and gold,
Clutched to her chest, last minute presents
For harassed mother, and dad, recently retired,
Time on his hands, and unsure how to fill the time,
Elder brother and his wife, and infant baby,
Sister due to go to uni in the autumn,
Head full of exams and boys, mainly boys she fears.
On the train finally, thankful to find a seat,
Sinking down with a sigh, her fellow travelers
Aware of her presence in only a vague way,
Heads in their newspapers, or staring into space,
Wondering if they would have time for a quick drink
On the way home; the familiar smells of damp wool
And sweaty bodies somehow strangely comforting,
Symbols of the shared community of strangers,
All with their own lives, hopes and dreams, yet united
In childlike enjoyment of this festive season,
Still a time of simple pleasures and bonhomie,
A bright interlude in the midst of winter gloom.
Eight pm, door closed to shut out the dark and cold,
Safe once more in her little suburban semi,
Kicking off her shoes, coat and scarf in the closet,
Hat and gloves on the radiator to dry out,
Time then for a cup of tea in front of the fire,
Before making dinner, cozy and warm, thinking
About tomorrow and all the preparations;
She offered to entertain the whole family
On Christmas Day, roast turkey and all the trimmings,
Mental note — must find time to decorate the tree,
And hang some streamers, everyone will expect it,
Memories of childhood suddenly fill her mind.
Almost ten o’clock now stretched out on the settee,
Too tired for television, content to just sit
In quiet contemplation, reviewing her life,
She feels adrift, not going anywhere, sort of lost,
Will the turning of the year bring anything new?
Then a knocking at the door, a sharp rat-a-tat,
Muffled sounds of stamping feet, coughs, and a quick Hush,
What would you like us to sing miss? pipes a small boy
As she opens the door. Carolers from the church,
Boys at the front cheeks glowing in the frosty air,
The women next, sensibly dressed in coats and scarves,
Tenors and basses behind, carrying lanterns.
Thinking hard, Oh, how about Silent Night?" she says,
A favourite carol from Sunday School days.
A man gives the note, and they all begin to sing,
Silent night, holy night, Sleeps the world, hid from sight,
The voices ringing out clear and bright in the night,
No angelic choir this, the occasional wrong note,
But beautiful nevertheless, the simple message
Far richer than gaudy baubles in shop windows.
The choir strikes up a new strain, a song of angels
With a message of peace and goodwill to mankind,
Heavenly music floating o’er a weary world,
A message for her, she wonders, promises of joy.
The last notes die away, and another small boy,
With cherubic smile, sticks out his collecting tin,
Happy Christmas Miss, he says. Oh … yes, yes of course,
She stammers, Hang on just a minute, turns aside
To find her bag, Thank you, and a Happy Christmas,
Happy Christmas to you, pushing a ten-pound note
Into the tin. Off they trudge into the darkness
Merrily singing that traditional refrain,
We wish you a merry Christmas,
We wish you a merry Christmas,
We wish you a merry Christmas
And a happy New Year.
Glad tidings we bring to you and your kin;
We wish you a merry Christmas
And a happy New Year.
The last notes fade as they disappear from her sight.
Closing the door, she smiles, her heart strangely at peace,
Then curls up pensively with a mug of cocoa.
In the background the radio is broadcasting
A programme celebrating the solstice in verse.
The grandfather clock softly chimes the midnight hour;
The world turns imperceptibly towards the light;
Soon the long night will be over, and days will grow,
Winter turning into Spring, season of new life.
Driven by some inner impulse, she goes outside;
Overhead the sky glitters with myriad stars,
Diamonds in the blackness, wheeling round her head
Shining out their eternal message to mankind,
That life continues, and there will always be hope,
New opportunities for those who are prepared.
Look up; they seem to say, and let go of the past,
For you will surely find the thing you are seeking.
She climbs the stairs, ready for sleep, healthily tired,
Victim no longer to paralysing ennui;
Too many years she has been stumbling in the dark
Like one lost in the fog, but now the clouds had cleared
As summer mists evaporate in the sunlight.
Look up, the voices sang, and see the bright meadows;
Look up and see the light of opportunity;
Follow the long and winding road, leading onward,
Into the unknown; the future is yours to seize;
In the far off distance are the shining summits;
Look up and venture forth on your life’s adventure.
And so, lulled by the angels’ song of hope, she sleeps.
Seven pm on the shortest day of the year;
Hurrying through bustling crowds of late night shoppers,
She goes, homeward bound, worried frown creasing her brow
A stray lock of hair escapes from her wooly hat,
Carrier bag with parcels of scarlet and gold,
Clutched to her chest, last minute presents
For harassed mother, and dad, recently retired,
Time on his hands, and unsure how to fill the time,
Elder brother and his wife, and infant baby,
Sister due to go to uni in the autumn,
Head full of exams and boys, mainly boys she fears.
On the train finally, thankful to find a seat,
Sinking down with a sigh, her fellow travelers
Aware of her presence in only a vague way,
Heads in their newspapers, or staring into space,
Wondering if they would have time for a quick drink
On the way home; the familiar smells of damp wool
And sweaty bodies somehow strangely comforting,
Symbols of the shared community of strangers,
All with their own lives, hopes and dreams, yet united
In childlike enjoyment of this festive season,
Still a time of simple pleasures and bonhomie,
A bright interlude in the midst of winter gloom.
Eight pm, door closed to shut out the dark and cold,
Safe once more in her little suburban semi,
Kicking off her shoes, coat and scarf in the closet,
Hat and gloves on the radiator to dry out,
Time then for a cup of tea in front of the fire,
Before making dinner, cozy and warm, thinking
About tomorrow and all the preparations;
She offered to entertain the whole family
On Christmas Day, roast turkey and all the trimmings,
Mental note — must find time to decorate the tree,
And hang some streamers, everyone will expect it,
Memories of childhood suddenly fill her mind.
Almost ten o’clock now stretched out on the settee,
Too tired for television, content to just sit
In quiet contemplation, reviewing her life,
She feels adrift, not going anywhere, sort of lost,
Will the turning of the year bring anything new?
Then a knocking at the door, a sharp rat-a-tat,
Muffled sounds of stamping feet, coughs, and a quick Hush,
What would you like us to sing miss? pipes a small boy
As she opens the door. Carolers from the church,
Boys at the front cheeks glowing in the frosty air,
The women next, sensibly dressed in coats and scarves,
Tenors and basses behind, carrying lanterns.
Thinking hard, Oh, how about Silent Night?" she says,
A favourite carol from Sunday School days.
A man gives the note, and they all begin to sing,
Silent night, holy night, Sleeps the world, hid from sight,
The voices ringing out clear and bright in the night,
No angelic choir this, the occasional wrong note,
But beautiful nevertheless, the simple message
Far richer than gaudy baubles in shop windows.
The choir strikes up a new strain, a song of angels
With a message of peace and goodwill to mankind,
Heavenly music floating o’er a weary world,
A message for her, she wonders, promises of joy.
The last notes die away, and another small boy,
With cherubic smile, sticks out his collecting tin,
Happy Christmas Miss, he says. Oh … yes, yes of course,
She stammers, Hang on just a minute, turns aside
To find her bag, Thank you, and a Happy Christmas,
Happy Christmas to you, pushing a ten-pound note
Into the tin. Off they trudge into the darkness
Merrily singing that traditional refrain,
We wish you a merry Christmas,
We wish you a merry Christmas,
We wish you a merry Christmas
And a happy New Year.
Glad tidings we bring to you and your kin;
We wish you a merry Christmas
And a happy New Year.
The last notes fade as they disappear from her sight.
Closing the door, she smiles, her heart strangely at peace,
Then curls up pensively with a mug of cocoa.
In the background the radio is broadcasting
A programme celebrating the solstice in verse.
The grandfather clock softly chimes the midnight hour;
The world turns imperceptibly towards the light;
Soon the long night will be over, and days will grow,
Winter turning into Spring, season of new life.
Driven by some inner impulse, she goes outside;
Overhead the sky glitters with myriad stars,
Diamonds in the blackness, wheeling round her head
Shining out their eternal message to mankind,
That life continues, and there will always be hope,
New opportunities for those who are prepared.
Look up; they seem to say, and let go of the past,
For you will surely find the thing you are seeking.
She climbs the stairs, ready for sleep, healthily tired,
Victim no longer to paralysing ennui;
Too many years she has been stumbling in the dark
Like one lost in the fog, but now the clouds had cleared
As summer mists evaporate in the sunlight.
Look up, the voices sang, and see the bright meadows;
Look up and see the light of opportunity;
Follow the long and winding road, leading onward,
Into the unknown; the future is yours to seize;
In the far off distance are the shining summits;
Look up and venture forth on your life’s adventure.
And so, lulled by the angels’ song of hope, she sleeps.
