If you go into a large department store in any town or city, you will find tall, elegant Christmas trees, perfectly upright and tastefully decorated with matching baubles carefully arranged.  Or you could have a Christmas tree that's a bit like mine - more than twenty years old, a bit skew-whiff and shoogly.  There are matching baubles, those that have survived the years, but the lights aren't quite long enough to reach the top.  Then there are the tiny nutcracker dolls, a gift from my sister, the wooden letter 'C' a gift from a friend, and the squished, glitter laden decoration of dubious descriotion made by a godchild, to name just a few.  It is this latter kind of tree, in its lopsided loveliness that truly says something about Christmas because it overflows with love - given and received - through many years and in different places.

Our carol service cum nativity was, I ventured to suggest even before it began, more like the latter than the former, delivered with lashings of love.

At times laugh out loud funny, at others aching endearing, with small children singing solos, and a real live dog to visit the manger, as well as adult and childrens' choirs, poems, Bible readings, advent candles, a parol lantern (looking east) and prayers, it was a brilliant morning, loads of fun, full of life and love.

Thank you Gatherers and friends for making it such a wonderful service.

Ode to Winter

By Gillian Clarke

We hoard light, hunkered in holt and burrow,

In cave, cwtsh, den, earth, hut, lair.

Sun blinks.  Trees take down their hair.

Dusk wipes horizons, seeps into the room,

The last flame of geranium in the gloom.

In the shortening day, bring in late flowers

To crisp in a vase, beech to break into leaf,

A branch of larch.  Take winter by the throat.

Feed the common birds, tits and finches,

The spotted woodpecker in his opera coat.

Let's learn to love the icy winter moon,

Or moonless dark and winter constellations,

Jupiter's glow, a slow, incoming plane,

Neighbourly windows, someone's flickering screen,

A lamp-lit page, drawn curtains.

Let us praise intimacy, talk and books,

Music and silence, wind and rain,

The beautiful bones of trees, taste of cold air,

Darkening fields, the glittering city,

That winter longing, hiraeth, something like prayer.

Under the stilled heartbeat of trees,

Wind-snapped branches, mulch and root,

A million bluebell bulbs lie low

Ready to flare in lengthening light,

After the dark, frozen earth, the snow.

Out there, fox and buzzard, kite and crow

Are clearing the ground for the myth.

On the darkest day bring to the tree,

Cool and pungent as forest.  Turn up the music.

Pour us a glass. Dress the house in pagan finery.