The reason for the season, they say, and December's magic anew, As a child, Christmas music filled the air, a joy to pursue. Gingerbread tea, gingerbread spray, a glittery, festive spree, Decorating our loving home, with a heart heavy and free.

I'll sigh and cry, and weep, I know, more than any year before, The glamour and the glitz will fade, knocking softly at my door. Christmas cards in a drawer will rest, with sympathy's kind embrace, A tradition, like Christmas itself, in time and in space.

They forget, sadly and despondently, the true meaning, so profound, Not glamour or glitz, not parties, where loud laughter can be found. Not costly gifts, or trending toys, or chasing what children crave, Not even a tree I cannot trim, a frozen shoulder to save.

It's about a child, born long ago, in a stable, in a manger's humble bed, Looking up at his mother, nursed fondly, with a surrogate father instead. It's about the homeless, a warm shelter, the lonely, a smile, a hello, Enough to eat, and some warmth to share, letting compassion flow.

It's over in a flash, this season's grace, so make each moment last, Think of the less fortunate, who sit in the cold, their past a fading cast. Asking for nothing but conversation, if cash you have none to impart, For the true spirit of Christmas, dear Mum, lives within every kind heart.

KE Dowling © 2025/12

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

  About The Author Katherine Eileen Dowling Katherine is my pseudonym, chosen to protect my family as this book, a labor of many years, finally comes to fruition. The unexpected loss of my Mother created a void I wasn't prepared to face. In seeking solace, I revisited earlier writings and discovered that, remarkably, the seeds of this magical tale had been sown at my Mother's bedside, amidst the quiet hours of nursing and vigil. Following a path once envisioned by my Grandmother, I entered the field of nursing, and with a poignant twist of fate, found myself caring for and nursing my Mother, an experience that profoundly shaped me. My enduring fascination for both the healing arts and the elusive magic that whispers at the edges of our world has long captivated me. Within these pages, I weave together these two passions, drawing upon my medical background and extensive research, grounded in fact yet unbound by it. For safety and narrative intrigue, I have taken artistic license...
Read more

A Christmas Tail for Christmas Eve 2025

by Katherine Eileen Dowling  Author’s Blog: The Quiet Before the Snow Christmas Eve dawned with a deceptive, porcelain beauty. In the high-altitude silence of the Welsh coast and the sheltered valleys of Ashbury, the light was the same—thin, pale, and brittle. It was a moment of absolute stillness before the storm, both literal and metaphorical. Ashbury: The Clinical Reality At the Ashbury estate, the day began with the cold precision of a field hospital. Ewan and Jamie sat at the breakfast table, the rest of the world sleeping on, unaware of the quiet war against decay the family waged daily. Jamie pored over her list of appointments, her brow furrowed with a grim focus. “I have a full ulcer clinic today,” she remarked, the words sounding stark against the clink of silver. “Wonderful. And would you be so kind as not to discuss the details while I finish my breakfast?” Ewan sighed, looking at his egg with sudden disdain. “Sorry, dear. I forget how squeamish you are about those inju...
Read more

The winter night

 The winter night begins to fall, my heart breaks now, Two years ago, this was your final home-bound vow. A sickness raged that I could never calm or cure, Your pain too great for touch, your spirit too unsure. Oh, God, if I had known those days were counted few, Before the chaos came, and I lost sight of you. You told me once, a cold house lacked your mother’s soul; Now, as the dusty mauve sunset assumes its toll, The fire is gone out, the hearth is dark and cold. My lonely grief is all the story to be told. And yet, by the small tree, I weep for all that’s gone, I hear your true voice whisper, "It looks lovely, hun." The kind voice that I loved, before the illness came, To steal your mind and soul, and only leave the pain.
Read more