Christmas Joy, a poem by Sarah Das Gupta at
Mc Zerrill

Christmas Joy

Christmas Joy

written by: Sarah Das Gupta


Snow falls softly in the fields,
trees dressed in perfect white.
Moonlight touches glittering crystals,
ice spreads over stream and pool.
In the barns, the cattle kneel,
on distant hills the sheep bleat low.
On Christmas Eve the world awaits,
The Child who brings that ancient hope.

In the City, street lamps shine,
icicles hang like glistening daggers.
The biggest, brightest Christmas tree,
sparkles and winks in the square below.
Belated travellers hurry along frosty streets,
carrying bright, mysterious parcels.
By millions of glowing firesides,
sleepy folk await the midnight chimes.

Father Christmas, Santa Claus, St Nicholas,
pack the sledge with gifts galore:
baby dolls, plastic spaceships, roller skates,
Ken, Barbie, baseball gear, and so much more.
The golden sleigh among the stars,
races between the constellations.
Rudolph, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen
Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen-

In the churches and cathedrals,
midnight masses have begun,
empty cribs will carry the Saviour,
while choirs sing the ancient songs.
Out on the cold Judean Hills,
shepherds again hear the angels –
‘Peace on earth, goodwill to men.’
The Star shines above the stable.

On that first Christmas morning,
The Christ Child received his gifts,
gold for a King, frankincense for worship,
while myrrh foretells the Cross ahead.
So, still children search their stockings
for far more worldly presents:
Crunchie chocolate, melting marshmellows,
fresh baked cookies and gingerbread men.

Round the world celebratory dinners,
Spain favours tender joints of lamb,
In America, the turkey’s king.
In France oysters, prawns, seafood,
followed by chocolate Bûche de Noelle.
In England, Christmas pudding, afire with rum.
Austria finishes with chocolate-apricot cake,
the wine is freely flowing, exotic cocktails too.

So, the Christ Child is born anew,
in a stable, no room at the inn.
The year is dying in darkness,
only six days of the old year remain,
but eleven more Christmas days of joy,
on Twelfth Night the revels end.
Men long for the coming of Spring.
Yet by Halloween, they await eagerly
Christmas, once again!

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