It being that time...
THE DARK DAYS DOWN TO CHRISTMAS
The dark days down to Christmas paw
Like horses at an earthen floor
When all the ghosts of autumn pass away
And ragged squads of starlings fight
In firethorn trees in fading light
For orange berries brighter than the day
The dark days down to Christmas slip
As convicts from a prison ship
Down moonlit ropes and hawsers one by one
And past the quayside through the lanes
With winter dragging on their chains
Peer into windows, envious of the sun
The dark days down to Christmas creep
As wolves around a pen of sheep
When people turn their collars up and sigh
A convalescent crescent moon
Comes drifting out mid-afternoon
To bid an old arthritic year goodbye
And down the drain these dark days spin
As kindling wood and paraffin
And sacks of coal and logs are fed
Into a spider-haunted shed
The garden tools with cobweb tines
And skeins of string on withered vines
Are vestiges left hanging on
As evidence of summer gone
The dark days down to Christmas call
In echoes to a flag-stoned hall
Too early for the feast, they stay awhile
But each, an uninvited guest
Is dirty, cold and under-dressed
And slips away unmissed in single file
The dark days down to Christmas wait
Like cinders cricking in a grate
Before the fire is raked, re-set and lit
And cheerless in their unmade bed
Glow only very faintly red
But give no hint of heat in spite of it
And yet with each dark day complete
Lighter and brighter grows the street
As frantic in the pubs and shops
The work speeds up– for soon, it stops
And in a lull between the two
The last day, having much to do
Though up till now, no time for thought
Allows a warming glass of port
And having set an hour free
Before the lights go on for tea
As ingots of old sunlight pierce the gloom
A ghost parade of days appears
With paler days from other years
Who reminisce in whispers round the room
The last day down to Christmas ends
Excusing all his sullen friends
Who slave until December twenty-third
Cut mistletoe, deliver parcels
Light the cottages like castles
Scribble cards and hardly say a word
Then, having done their tasks they drift
As workers from a graveyard shift
The moment that each day has lost its light
Till wistfully, the last one goes
Ignites a candle, leaves a rose
And slips out softly to the frosty night.