After we’ve taken to the shops,
the public houses, the clamour
and glitz, we come home, step out
of the swell, hole up

with our howl, cradle it close,
hold it still, until we can let it go
out with us again, out into
the cold and the frozen.

Until we can let it show
us how to love
glamour: only as tinsel,
as topping.

The promise of Christmas was never
a treasury. Frankinsense and myrrh
came later. And as gifts. Brought
to a child, into a manger, by the wise.