The logs are chopped, the basket full,
The smokeless fuel heaped on the grate,
Mid-afternoon, some winters chill,
And water in the cellar lies,
And drives the mice to venture in.
The sky is dappled pink and peach,
The day has paused, there seems a lull,
And yet it seems the night can wait,
There’s music now, amidst the still,
Advent from St Johns which tries
To balance beauty with the din
Of modernism, which can’t reach
The parts that older carols can.
The prayers are said, the readings read,
A Spotless rose is spotless sung,
Perfection is not really dead.
Is that the old familiar pull?
When yet we know we have, of late,
Fallen short, against our will,
Or often had to compromise,
Can we sense beneath the skin,
Above our thoughts, beyond our speech,
The greatest truth - that God was man?
