The dying chords of our final carol ring,
A pilgrimage around the busy motorway,
Percussive rattle of the brown concrete surface,
No star to follow for us this Christmas Day.

The King speaks on journeys as a nation eats,
The rustle of our golden paper crowns,
Alcohol doused, to cheers the pudding burns,
Now Santa Claus has finally come to town.

Shirt sleeves rolled up and dirty dishes stacked,
Hot water bubbles as cooking pans are scoured,
Cautiously, old vegetable water is drained away,
No doubt the brussel sprouts will linger on for hours.

With belts let out we sit, the mood relaxes,
Our daily lives for now are put aside,
And as our sleepy senses fade we hear,
The ancient echoes of Mary’s baby cry.

It’s been a lovely Christmas Day, full of sights, sounds and senses. Merry Christmas all!
(25.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by freestocks on Unsplash