The ghost of Christmases past is present in the low amber light of the solstice sun.
You make that journey every year, revisiting your childhood like a magus trekking over desert to lay golden gifts at the foot of a child-god.
What gifts have you for that most un-god-like of ghostly children?
You will be good and cheery and fulfil your obligations;
Your indulgences will not be extreme.
You will bolster the breached walls of your father’s house with care and love,
And rekindle the hearth fire and dancing candles that lit a childhood Christmas long ago.
The rich things of that kernel child inside will germinate anew,
And that green hopeful growth will propagate stem-for-stem,
And take hold in the filling chambers of your own sprung-off children.
It is a time for passing on your dwindling light.
Your scarce rays scorch a path through the night tunnel,
Advanced and retreated in time, a single chamber past and present,
Concentric circles set to flame by the ghostly touchpaper of Christmases past.