24/12/2025
It came without ribbons.
It came without bows.
No matching sets.
No plaits in neat rows.
It came in the dark
when the yard lights hum,
With frozen taps stubborn
and fingers gone numb.
The mud had spread wide
like it owned the place.
The wheelbarrow sulked.
The wind hit your face.
No sparkle. No tinsel.
No festive display.
Just carrots in pockets
and nets full of hay.
He didn’t want presents
or glitter or cheer.
Just dinner on time
and his people still here.
And standing there quietly,
warm breath in the air,
You felt it arrive
without fanfare or flair
Because Christmas, it turns out,
on yards just like these,
Is routine and presence
and moments of ease.
It isn’t the ribbons.
It isn’t the flair.
It’s carrots and kindness
And hay in your hair.
