From out the Frozen North he comes,
Areek of fetid sugarplums;
He bears a sharpened blood-cord cane
And drags behind an emerald chain.
The midnight clear is rent by cry
Of Carole Singhers, first to die,
And bleak midwinter’s silent night
Sees velvet snow no longer white.
Old Enid in her rocking chair
Hears howls disturb the frosty air
And, muted, waits for sound or smell
Of roasted ham or jingle bell.
Bar up your windows, black the shades,
And curb the hound that barks and bays;
Build up a blaze without delay
And hope you’ve wood to last ‘til day.
Fast-lock your door and latch the gate
Then tremble, quiet, while you wait;
Beware this day of Christmas fear
And pray it comes but once a year.
© 2019 Thain Emrys Bertin