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.Continue reading
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