They both stood admiring the Christmas lights
Staring lovingly into the evening sky.
He was wearing rather fetching woollen tights
And she was beginning to wonder the reason why.

He put on his false white beard
And tried to slip on some massive black boots.
She has guessed and it was what she had feared
He did have some strange whacky persuits.

Meanwhile she had slipped into a little costume
She had decided to dress like her friend Frilly Mary
She had found a feather boa in her bedroom
And she fancied herself as a Fairy.

“Good grief, look at her, she has a wand”
He had become quite hot.
He dipped his foot in the pond
And considered his position and what he’d got

“Now why would she want to be dressed like that”
She has more lights on her wings than the tree.
He knew he could definitely smell a rat
“And I can sniff, oh yes, that is me.”

She tiptoed over and guessed straight away
“You are Santa Claus are you not”
“Come on, where have you parked the sleigh”
Now he had gone a funny shade of hot.

“I could easily ask you about your attire”
He mounted his high horse.
It was like adding oil to a fire
And let nature run it’s course.

They had a bit of a set to
And they both thought they could hear ringing.
They were bells and quite a few
And they could hear children singing.

They both realised the magic day had come
Christmas carols and everywhere was lit up.
“care to join me in the fun”
She did and to that he raised his sherry cup.

What ails you, o youthful soul ?
An indelible writ, some trecherous dole?
The delusion, that is fate's generous design;
Or, some disowned yearning, you repine?
There, in the depths of the unseen
Athwart the moist groves, lush and green
With mirth flows the meandering brook,
Glistening with myriad shades, forbear, look ...
Here is an ethereal solace bestowed,
Unbreached by woes, is this tranquill abode.
In this serene woods, unspoken and kind
Abounds, what you desperately seek to find;
A moment's succor, a touch of the divine...

And what grieves you, frail, senescent being
The gloomy dusk, past the bountiful spring?
Mayhaps, the meagre share of ill-spent time,
Some futile persuits, worth not a dime...
There in the glades, the pansies bloom,
Gleeful, sans a hint of imminent doom,
Come summer; when spring shall fade
Those gay petals shall wither, ashen and dead
And yet they bloom, though death is nigh
The unassailable fate; do they ruefully deny?
The wherefores of being, who can wholly discern?
Well, dust we were and to dust shall turn...
In earth and clay shall our being, to eternity sublime.

Even noble persuits like love and life
and often nought but instruments of strife
So the best field to be strong in
Is not the ways to always win
But knowing when giving up is best
For you will win some, but not the rest