Waiting for the solstice.

Young lovers and old flames,
lighting the candle down golden lanes,
the Avon swans with its pride,
mother Christmas so loving and wide.
 
A festive beggar,
a Cameron refugee,
eating workhouse gruel,
singing seasonal hymns.
 
It is hidden despair,
like Jack Frost on a moonlit night,
something about what do you pray,
for a family in a stable,
to make merry and able.
 
The people go up and down,
the steeple still has a crown,
a piano on wheels chases me up the street,
the sun goes down,
the lambs do bleat.
 
The tinsel beggar spits on the ground
and scurries home,
with the jingling sound of his winnings.

 
~