Sonneted Christmas Copyright © Jenny Chantler 2009

We're raised to think that this should all be joy.
Twelve days of laughter rushing through the door,
Not threading up the chimney like a boy
With sooted head and feet both bruised and sore.

There is no longer comfort by the fire
When broken homes split hearts like chestnut rinds,
And coal face smiles distort to those of liars
That wheedle through the bare boned watcher's mind.

But in the chilling ash can stir a sound,
The smallest sound of all, the still small voice.
And if the bellows hang there and still pound
There may yet be a reason to rejoice.

As rising puffs of notes create a score,
They bring to life a carolled song once more.