Step inside a church, and wonder at what you see,
Decked out with gold, silver ribbons, pretty as can be.
A brightly lit up Christmas Tree,
But alas not me, sadly I cannot see.
Smells, I can there all around,
In the air and upon the ground.
Rituals preformed out over the years,
To help alleviate all our fears.
Frankincense, Myrrh are heavenly scents,
Evoking memories of childhood, of Yule times spent.

The local pub frequented well,
Fragrant hops producing fine local ales.
Aromas of decanted deep red ports,
Musky, aged consumed, sought.
Blazing fires burning seasoned wood,
Eyes a water-never good!!
Egg Nog and a warmed spiced Toddy,
Walking home the weathers foggy.

Mistletoe hung above the door,
Green stems, sour berries white and pure.
Turkey trussed with chestnut stuffing,
Rich Mince Pies ready for the offing.
The distinctive smell of boiling ham,
Reminding me that home: I am.
Sprouts a bubbling, oh! pungent veg,
Enough to send some over the edge.
Cinnamon in the Christmas Pud
Smells delicious, truly good.
Church bells ringing, welcomed sound,
A Merry Christmas to all around.

Breda Ware