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A week to Christmas |
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Cards of snow and holly |
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Gimcracks in the shops |
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Wishes and memories wrapped in tissue paper |
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Trinkets, gadgets and lollipops |
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As is through coloured glasses we remember the childhood thrill |
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Waking in the morning to the rustling of paper |
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The eiderdown heaped in a hill |
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Of dogs and bears and bricks and apples |
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The feeling that Christmas Day was a coral island in time |
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Where we land and eat our lotus |
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But where we can never stay |
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There was a star in the east |
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The Magi in their turbans brought their luxury toys |
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In homage to the child born to capsize their values |
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Wreck their equipoise |
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A smell of hay, like peace in the dark stable |
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Not peace, however, but a sword |
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To cut the Gordian Knot of logical self-interest |
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The fool-proof golden cord |
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For Christ walked in where philosophers tread |
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But armed with more than folly |
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Making the smooth place rough |
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And knocking the heads of church and state together |
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In honour of Him we have taken over the pagan Saturnalia for our annual treat |
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Letting the belly have its say |
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Ignoring the spirit while we eat |
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And conscience still goes crying through the desert with sackcloth round his loins |
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A week to Christmas |
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Hark the Herald Angels beg for copper coins |
