Strangers are smiling,
it must be Christmas.
We wish each other well,
and wonder where the year has gone.
In recent years some houses,
seeking to upstage their neighbours,
have burst into twinkling light
with trees, bearded gentlemen
and flying reindeer; some
even affect a religious interest.
Others remain with blinds drawn,
meditating in the dark stillness.
Perhaps, deep within their recesses,
and inmost crevices, these houses
have heard the story of the child
born to rule over all creation
with humble love. Maybe
they dream of the stable,
the unassuming shed, chosen
ahead of other dwellings.
It has become an exalted place
where poor people, dumb animals,
and the almighty God
find their home.
© Ken Rookes
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