On this His winter's day the Christ bells ring <br />that celebrate this season of despair. <br />Returns the dear, wronged echoes that now sing <br />in chorus, almost human, like a prayer. <br />Again before my fire and regret, <br />beside those downturned figures from the sleigh <br />broods tinsel blessings and red, fretted debt- <br />and neither find a sacred thing to say. <br />So the hearth still tries its guilt-lamenting song <br />and all the while it lingers as a curse, <br />for somewhere-somehow-something's wrong- <br />like Christmas cards appraised upon their verse. <br />My human self alone can Jesus save <br />and so 'in excelsior' to the grave.<br /><br />Glenn Bagshaw<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/allan-tate-at-christmas/
