Though calendars still read the same,
The season has a different name,
Instead of grey skied snowy scenes,
Our views are lit with golds and greens.
And if we're lucky, just in time,
Reminding of a colder clime,
The 'Christmas Bush' will shake its head,
And quickly turn to holly red.
With stoic intent most will strive,
To keep the northern 'trads' alive,
The cards some still with hunting scenes,
And gifts that often stretch our means.
And then upon the twenty fifth,
We really test the Christmas myth,
A meal of 'out of season' size,
Confronts our disbelieving eyes,
Leaves us generously sated,
Often, mildly sedated.
Yes, many things are different here,
But one unchanged dispels our fear,
When, children with a special voice,
Carol to us all Rejoice!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.