A Yorkshire Christmas Eve | 12 December 2013

His nearby town wore annual evening-dress,
cheap jewellery of lights, white fur and bright
drapes of Santa red which might impress
late shoppers on this final trading-night,
persuading them to spend their all before
indifferent time slammed shut the last shop door.

He heard hyena voices and he saw
splashed vomit on the pavement as he left,
saddened by this evidence of more
contempt of what was once the numinous.
He headed for the moors and his small house.

Later on, as he prepared for bed,
he could not rid himself of melancholy:
the world had changed, Christmas seemed stone-dead
or turned into a tasteless parody
of what was thrilling once, yet innocent.

But then from far away he heard the faint
and silver chiming of church-bells that sent
an aural spice into the firmament;
and after that, from somewhere closer, came
the sound of varied voices, sweetly blent,
singing of shepherds and one starry name.

He smiled wry thanks and settled down, content.