The radio plays on my journey through rime-frosted trees. A heart beats in time to the wolverine heat, and do we believe in Father Christmas? I wonder.
So here it comes, tumbling down in orange-peeled, candle-wax .. the crib filled and donkeys lowing. I watch the flickering lights fill a Methodist chapel and rise on the sweep of a carolled wave. Skewered fruit and a sash of crimson-licked blood to gird this world. And we wonder.
He is here with us. Smiling and alive. Could it really be any other, this Christmas day? There are no parcels to unwrap, for He is all.
The flight in mist to another place. Fire consuming the Norfolk balm, where a flotsam heart hangs still and bloodless from the wall. Are these faces I see in the bleached driftwood of a wind-whip walk the length of the sands?
So, this is Christmas ...
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