We decked the halls with boughs of holly
but now we’ve cleared them all away.
The cards have been recycled and
the decorations stashed today.

The holy couple’s journey’s done,
the shepherds’ tea-towels have been washed.
The wise men have at last gone home,
alas, the donkey costume’s lost

The streets outside seem strangely quiet
with no discordant flashing lights.
The pubs are empty, roads are still
perhaps at last a silent night.

It came upon a midnight clear
but twelve nights on it’s gone away.
It’s packed its bags and left you down
with feelings miserable and grey.

But even though the stable’s empty,
the carols sung, the manger bare,
that does not mean the story’s over
the chapter closed on this strange affair.

For from the school hall where our children
rehearsed their lines, received applause,
the Christ-child moved into our streets
and made his residence right next door.

‘The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighbourhood…’ John 1:14 (MSG)

I planned to try and write a poem for each day of the Twelve Days of Christmas, but life happened. 8/12 is not too bad though. Oddly enough, I started this one first and have been arguing with it throughout, trying to do it in rhyme, which felt appropriate, but without becoming too twee.
(05.01.24)

© Ben Quant 2023
Original photo by Greyson Joralemon on Unsplash