Christmas Eve (Poetry)

There’s a candle in the window
glowing soft across the snow;
on the door, a wreath of roses
with a crimson Christmas bow;
from inside, the sound of singing —
words of carols old and new,
and a hint of spice and pinewood,
sweet as incense, filters through.

Friendly smoke curls from the chimney
like a welcome in the night,
as the frost glints on the roof tiles
and the stars shine fiercely bright,
then a bell tolls in the distance
and a dog barks in reply,
and a subtle magic happens,
spreads through fields and fills the sky.

There’s a whisper on the night wind
and a presence in the hall
as the ghost of Yuletide hovers,
holds expectant hearts in thrall,
conjures up a host of visions
while the flame burns, heralding
the exultant stroke of midnight
as the spirit enters in.