Writer’s Block

I can write of Rutter carols tritely piped by festive choirs,
Of toothless Rudolph reindeers all complete with nose and sleigh;
Of the holly and the ivy round a thousand Gothic spires,
And city streets illumined with a ceremonial switch;
But of Christmas there seems nothing more to say.

I can write of ever-presents, festal food and merry cheer,
Of a Barclaycard bonanza and the struggle to repay;
Of tax returns, statistics and the fiscal end-of year,
Of bonuses, inflation, and a quantitative hitch;
But of Christmas there seems nothing more to say.

I can write of winter walking – of the muted sallow shades
Of the cattle treading mud around the farmer’s scattered hay;
Of slithery birch and beech leaves sliding down the forest glades,
Of impenetrable windfalls, and an unexpected ditch!
But of Christmas there seems nothing more to say.

I can even write of football – of the passion and the thrills;
Of the managerial pressure of a game on boxing day;
Of the January window, squad rotation, and the skills
Of Gerard’s curving strike to team-mates half-across the pitch!
But of Christmas there seems nothing more to say.

So I shall write of genesis, the promise of new-birth;
A second chance to sing with stars along the milky way:
A lexicon of words made flesh – of just and right and worth,
And a topsy-turvey world of last and first and poor and rich:
For at Christmas there is always more to say!