Christmas, 1983, London

The doors are paper, the image small,

“Be patient, or he won’t come at all,”

A robin, pert and brightly bold,

“Bide your time, let the joy unfold.”

A sprig of holly, green and red

“He’ll know if you don’t go to bed.”

On a Tuesday, under electric light,

Each of us will, in turn, recite

A line or two that form a story

Of Mary and Joseph and God’s glory,

And in years to come, what will stick

Is how the nerves made Frank Smith sick.

“Calm down, don’t get too excited,”

But all that sugar just incited

Us to queasy tight rope walking,

To gleeful shrieks or wet-faced squawking,

Yet still, reflected in our tears,

Those fairy lights we’d had for years,

And every year we’d have to search

For the bulb that left us in the lurch,

And dimmed the tree to tinselled dark,

Our effervescence slumped… but Hark!

The Herald! Angels Sing!

We raised our voices to the King,

Unsure if that was Jesus, or instead

If we prayed to the man in red,

Who there, behind the final door

Promised us so much more

Than everlasting life and love –

The toy that we’d been dreaming of!

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

And we would curl up on a knee,

Cat-like, take our comfort lightly

Warm and safe and fizzing slightly

With some unformed intuition

A knowledge just beyond cognition,

That wanting risks a greater pain,

But if we don’t, if we abstain

From asking for that greatest gift,

But chose to feel with fearful thrift,

We might miss out on times like these,

Sheltered, held, on willing knees,

Waiting, still, for the crack of dawn

Imagining that paper torn

Not knowing then what so touched our heart,

That waiting, trusting, is the best part.