niveous mist wisps and winds through steeples tall, along
cobbles flat and up your trouser leg. women cower on buses
gloves and bags. Michelin kids slip and slide
wide-eyed tasting skies of their failing flaying youth
the haves shop until they drop and have-nots drop at the shop
collecting alms doing no harm, but spoiling foiling illusions of
'good tidings for you and your kin'
street windows, flat screens, screaming wars, on the hour every
hour, Aleppo letting go
downloaded and freeloaded an aroma kicks the coma. Coffee to
see, to set free, my tunes, iTunes, oh it's such A Beautiful Life.
a cross on a spire, a flurry, a story, an electric fire. Santa calls,
snow falls, the barista waits, Jesus weeps
daylight sleeps, darkness creeps, chills spill, dammit this planet
stops a spinning, no one's winning, no one notices
Christmas effortless meaningless, unless of course your horse,
your saviour entered this tragically, magically juxtaposed hard-
nosed space & place
to rescue men [and possibly women too] from their sorrowful
pitiful sinful ways
this Yuletide faze, this yearly craze,
it's rather a random kingdom
Kelvin Fowler is a Kiwi pastor, poet, writer, and artist. His exploits include numerous publications, poetry tours of the UK and Germany, and various adventures like those in his book Clueless in America. Check out more of Kelvin's work at supper.co.nz, including his latest book, Verses for the King.