Christmas Day

On the first of December, the sky turns up‑turned,
The brittish air pre‑filled with the scent of pine,
The tinsel on the tree, the fruities browned and spun,
A glow that, though winter‑tight, feels exactly divine.

Morning waits politely behind the frosted door,
A mug of hot‑savour tea, ready to acquire;
A box of glossy mince‑pudding, rolled with berry,
The clink of copper pans – the fire’s own heart’s desire.

Children hush, they dream of a white Santa’s sleigh,
While the family gathers, each kettle’s gentle whorl,
The traditions of our Culture, plated in a feast,
From roasted chestnut to fish upon the host.

Presents under the tree, their ribbons ripple like seas,
Winding through the decked walls, the garlands’ soft whisper.
Colourful lights flicker against the night‑sky’s hush,
A silent hymn of joy, as the old year quivers.

In the quiet that follows, the candlelight tosses glitter,
An Anglican carol hums, “O tidings, bright!”
The laughter that lingers, a memory of those who
Stir the peppermint‑almond, until the tea’s last brim.

So here’s to the day – the day of all hope and cheer,
A blessed British winter, sewn with love and good will.
In the heartbeats of hearth and the scent of sugar plum,
We celebrate the love of all who gift themselves the thrill.