Traditions: A Christmas Poem

The Victorian traditions are lost and forgotten.

The Christmas pomander for scent, clove-studded orange,

Preserved in groves of spices; crinolines; candy canes –

Ginger, pepper, nutmeg, thyme.

Black cabs rolling down icy narrow lanes . . .

Tick-tock of a pocket-watch marking the Michaelmas time . . .

And yet, as if all these traditions mean nothing at all,

They flicker out, like lighted candles on Christmas trees.

The tangible traditions of an ancient age leave only

A faint heritage of hope – a hope that something holy

Might fall to us from these things, and comfort the lonely –

A master Hand, a Hand that reaches down to soothe them wholly.