Book of Christmas

A week to Christmas
Cards of snow and holly
Gimcracks in the shops
Wishes and memories wrapped in tissue paper
Trinkets, gadgets and lollipops
As is through coloured glasses we remember the childhood thrill
Waking in the morning to the rustling of paper
The eiderdown heaped in a hill
Of dogs and bears and bricks and apples
The feeling that Christmas Day was a coral island in time
Where we land and eat our lotus
But where we can never stay

There was a star in the east
The Magi in their turbans brought their luxury toys
In homage to the child born to capsize their values
And wreck their equipoise
A smell of hay, like peace in the dark stable
Not peace, however, but a sword
To cut the Gordian Knot of logical self-interest
The fool-proof golden cord
For Christ walked in where philosophers tread
But armed with more than folly
Making the smooth place rough
And knocking the heads of church and state together

In honour of whom
We have taken over the pagan Saturnalia for our annual treat
Letting the belly have its say
Ignoring the spirit while we eat
And conscience still goes crying through the desert
With sackcloth round his loins
A week to Christmas
Hark the Herald Angels beg for copper coins