Who’s that knocking at the window,
Who’s that standing at the door,
What are all those presents
Lying on the kitchen floor?
Who is the smiling stranger
With hair white as gin,
What is he doing with the children
And who could have let him in?
Why has he rubies on his fingers,
A cold, cold crown on his head,
Why, when he caws his carol,
Does the salty snow run red?
Why does the world before him
Melt in a million suns,
Why do his yellow, yearning eyes
Burn like saffron buns?
Watch where he comes walking
Out of the Christmas flame,
Dancing, double talking:
Herod is his name. Charles Causley
To a Lady saying Grace in a Station Buffet.
Step nearer to my canvas gracious traveller
That I may paint a portrait of you
Sitting tranquilly against a backcloth
Of trains and timetables,
As mindful of Cana, you offer thanks
For lukewarm coffee
And the veiled hostility of slab cake. Sheila Nottage
Lord Finchley tied to mend the Electric Light
Himself. It struck him dead: And serve him right!
It is the business of the wealthy man
to give employment to the artisan. Hilaire Belloc
Prayer is like watching for the
Kingfisher. All you can do is
be where he is likely to appear, and
Often, nothing much happens;
There is space, silence and
No visible sign, only the
Knowledge that he’s been there
And may come again.
Seeing or not seeing cease to matter.
You have been prepared.
But when you have almost stopped
Expecting it, a flash of brightness
Gives encouragement. Ann Lewin
The Swallow said,
He comes like me,
Longed for; unexpectedly.
The superficial eye
Will pass him by,
Said the Wren.
The best singer ever heard.
No one will take much notice,
Said the Blackbird.
The Owl said,
He who is , who is he
Who enters the heart as soft
As my soundless wings, as me. U. A. Fanthorpe