Snowdrops, pale and shy and still, As if they’re afraid to face the bracing breeze. Downcast propellers, silent in the chill, So loathe to disturb the hush beneath the trees. Always huddled together in their crowds With the neck of a swan and the wimple of a nun; Tensed to bare the worst from the clouds, And wilting away in the first warmth of the sun.
Christmas is done with, The New Year is come, The feasting is over, The outlook is glum, Our work is resumed And the weather is cold, So uproot the glitter And out with the old.
They’re sprouting on pavements And swarming on greens, They loiter on verges Like unruly teens, They cluster round dustbins And litter our lanes – Straggly and soggy, These sorry remains.
They served us so proudly A fortnight ago, They warmed up the winter And gave us a glow. But now they are cast out With scant a goodbye – Destitute, homeless, And waiting to die.
The council is working To round up the strays And shred them to chippings For Agas to blaze, Or sit beneath see-saws, Or borders to don. By Twelve Night they’re coming, By Burns Night, they’re gone.
Soothe the fridge its fears of less abundancy, Let it know it must cut back its stocks. Tell the ashtray straight of its redundancy, Warn the sofa and the gogglebox. Brace the bathroom scales still anticipating weight: Notify them of reducing bulk. Rouse the bike and treadmill from their hibernating state – And disappoint the wine-rack – let it sulk.
The days are so short, late of the year – Won’t you come on in ? When the sun is down, and the frost is near, And the gales begin. But there’s always a shelter under our gable, There’s always an extra chair at the table For any stray stranger who’s hungry, and able To pay us with only a grin.
The weather gets cold, this time of year – We’re chilled to the skin. It gets so hard to volunteer And rattle the tin. But there’s always a welcome here in our home To help turn the grey to polychrome, For unlucky souls who unwillingly roam, While the wheels of fortune spin.
The season gets busy, every year, And we just can’t win, With the thanks so small, and the price so dear, And our patience thin. But there’s always a place at the table that’s set For the unbidden guest coming-in from the wet, In time to remind what we often forget: That there’s always room at the inn.
On the second morning afterly The Feast of Middle-Winter, I walked-out with my true-love Through the brittle lambent-glinter – I walked-out with my true-love Till our cheeks were flush with pinking, And I asked my wind-teased beauty To me whisper of her thinking. The said she thought of Crystal Jack, A diligent delinquent, Who caught the sun and shone it back As glistered-golden clinquant. I walked-out with my true-love ’Cross the sparkled, gelid loam, And so we warmed each other’s breaths Until the starlings bid us home.
On the Second Day of Christmas We rode out with the pack, And we galloped through the woods As we waited the attack. On the Second Day of Christmas We cast the braying hounds As they scurried for the scent And they ran the fox to ground.
So blow the horns and raise the cries, Let slip the hounds and shred the prize, And show to all your blameful eyes This menace needs controlling.
On the Second Day of Christmas We wished for peace on Earth As we hollered for the fox As we wrenched it from its berth. On the Second Day of Christmas As we cantered through the mud, And wished to all goodwill As we slathered for the blood.
So blow the horns and raise the cries, Let slip the hounds and shred the prize, And show to all your blameful eyes This menace needs controlling.
Rhyming Couplets 