Christmas Eve

On Christmas Eve the streets grow still,
the firelight flickers, honey‑sweet and old –
a hush of wool, a winter blue, a dream,
and everywhere the quiet hums like gold.

The market stalls with mince‑pie and plum,
the ribbon‑trimmed tinsels dance above the street,
while children’re tucked in rocking‑horses’ arms,
their hearts all rosy, counting every beat.

At midnight, on the heart of Brit‑land still,
the bell‑tower rings, and snowflakes drift again,
a cold looking glass at us from glassery.
All is blessed, all is bright, all is the past life for the two.

The final feasts, the roast, the pudding twisted,
the honey‑toffee of a laugh in the night t and long coffee at the warm drinking, with church bells in the blue‑sky, Madonna, brave December, message.