He sat there sad, 
his tree alight with silver ***** and trinkets, 
alone this holy night, while others gather round, 
resound with songs of joy, 
here silence reigns, his frosty panes describe the star.

Now passed away, his friends, his family and foes, 
he meditates, their atmosphere, 
so dear, so fresh, 
so faded in his memory of other times gone by, 
they leap, a flame, a candle in his mind, 
and opened a bright drawer, 
where lay the rosary his mother wore, 
and taking up this precious chain, 
of litanies and prayers. 

He heard his mother's voice again,
he saw her face, 
felt solace in his fears; 
now all the years of health and youth have fled, 
now bled the veins of beating hearts 
that gave him sustenance and sentiments so pure, 
devout; their ether filled the air, 
it was as if he'd taken flight and all his family was there.

A knock awoke him from his dream, 
his magic reverie, 
he was just sitting quite alone, 
who could that stranger be, 
a little boy, just like himself, stood smiling on the mat, 
he sang his favourite Christmas carol, 
his little box for charity held high for all to see, 
but when the penny dropped inside, there was no boy at all.                

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2010.