The village lane adorned in white,
as laden branches bow with snow,
is frozen this December eve
shown only by the lamps' dim light.

I look towards an icy sky
to see it cloudless, filled with stars;
a distant tree-top sheds its flakes
when robin redbreast leaves to fly.

Around the corner comes the ring
of bells upon the farmer's horse;
it's tethered up beside the church
from where I hear the chorus sing.

By dancing flames of candle fire
the stained glass windows show their scenes;
emitting such a dazzling glow,
and colouring the churchyard brier.

With all the village here of course,
I'll visit first the farmer's horse -
for it must carry such a load -
then make my way off down the road...