Thank you to Sue for our lovely Robin introduction, and to the other wonderful children’s poets who have sent poems for our Christmas blog 2021. We’d also like to thank all those who have supported us by sending fascinating and illuminating blogs this year.
Angel Dance
…………………………………
See the shepherds with the sheep,
Not one dares to make a peep,
Tonight, no one will go to sleep,
The angels dance above.
…………………………
See the trees turn golden, bright,
The hills are flooded with pure light,
And all feel warm this cold, cold night,
The angels dance above.
…………………………….
See the glint in every eye,
No one asks the question why
Heaven has flooded Earth’s dark sky,
The angels dance above.
………………………………
Coral Rumble
Christmas morning
♥
Last year
on Christmas morning
we got up really early
and took the dog for a walk
across the downs
It wasn’t snowing
but the hills were white with frost
and our breath froze
in the air
♥
Judy rushed around like a crazy
thing
as though Christmas
meant something special to her
♥
The sheep huddled together
looking tired
as if they’d been up all night
watching the stars
♥
We stood at the highest point
and thought about what Christmas means
and looked over the white hills
and looked up at the blue sky
♥
And the hills seemed
to go on forever
and the sky had no bounds
and you could imagine
a world at peace
♥
Roger Stevens
A Christmas Poem
When my Great Aunt Bertha,
who was a Quaker,
read in the papers
of how their boys and our boys gave it all up,
put the guns down
and climbed over the top
to kick the patched leather ball
between barbed wire and crater rims,
between the two straight dark ditches they lived in,
she took it upon herself to head down to Woolworth’s
and buy up all the marked down boxes of Christmas cards,
lolling on the January shelves.
She spent her war years licking stamps,
inking addresses,
printing xmas messages in one of a number of different languages,
as appropriate,
signing her love
and visiting the pillar-box at the head of her road.
Sacks of the things went off at once,
whole stretches of trench filled with spade-handled robins,
holly, magi, stockings and snow.
The babe of peace arrived in his manger,
in the stable,
in March, in April, in May,
ceaselessly,
year on year.
If there had been no calendars,
no officers, no orders,
no today’s or yesterday’s newspaper in the mess,
in the trench,
no date on the soldier’s letter from home,
then her plan may have worked,
assuming the other side were equally ill-equipped
and open-mindedly eager to clutch peace as it passed.
But
no one was stupid enough to think it might be Christmas
every day,
no one was fooled by her hand,
and besides, the ball
needed pumping
and a puncture repair kit.
Great Aunt Bertha.
A.F. Harrold
Christmas dawn
brings frost
in fields.
Sheep seek
one patch
where sunlight creeps,
and stand
– quite still –
on a Cotswold hillside.
Woolly backs
steam;
shadows stretch.
Fingers of friendly light
linger
as frosted grass
turns green.
Pie Corbett
Children's Poetry Summit 
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