Autumn mists have come and gone,

Peat bogs begins to film with frost.

Dark turf, wind-dried, now carted home

Will glow on country kitchen hobs.

...

The poignant smell of burning peat

Clings like a mantle round the town.

I close my eyes and wish like mad

That feathery flakes come floating down.

...

I’m nine and recognise the signs

That Christmas now is on its way,

Then dash down to the bottom barn

To see if I can find my sleigh.

...

I crack frozen puddles with my toe,

Trace sunken prints of passing sheep.

In the fairy thorn white mistletoe

Twines where red-breasted robins cheep.

...

A curlew calls across the moor,

Its wistful cry drifts through the whins.

Red-berried holly edged with hoar

Is hung in contrition for mankind’s sins

...

Carol singers trudge down our lane

Pure voices raised in ‘Silent Night’

As drifting snowflakes in silken skeins

Form mystic dreams in the lantern light.

...

Soon stocking hung on chimney breast

Will await the visit of Santa Claus

but tomorrow I’ll get out my sleigh

And whiz past hedges hung with haws.

...

Shooting stars streak the inky sky

Bringing gasps of awe at their curious beams,

Recalling the Wise Men’s arduous trek

When seeking the infant born to redeem.

...

updated by @fred-mcilmoyle: 10/16/17 11:38:56PM