a Christmas poem
In through the gate came a figure well muffled,
But cold were the feet of the tramp
As up the path to the house he shuffled
Through snow brightly lit by his lamp.
Frost-covered bushes and trees watched him pass,
The snow hid the doorstep from sight
And just like pendants of sculptured glass
Icicles shone in the light.
Quite how he entered is not to be told,
But he did so not making a sound.
And soon his bones were not quite so cold
As he sipped at the whisky he found.
Upstairs the family was asleep and in dream,
Downstairs the tramp had to smile
For he'd just found a plate of mince pie and cream,
A taste he'd not known for a while.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand
He sighed and then dozed in a chair.
Lost in a warm and magical land
He did not hear the creak of the stair.
For it's Christmas Morning and the children can't wait,
Bursting through the door they see -
An empty glass and an empty plate
And presents under the tree
But of the tramp there is not a trace
Just crumbs on the arm of a chair.
"He's been! He's been!" says the joy on each face
But perhaps he was never there.
the above work is copyright David Axton © All Rights Reserved