A Yorkshire Christmas Eve
His nearby town wore annual evening-dress, cheap jewellery of lights, white fur and bright drapes of Santa red which might impress late shoppers on this final trading-night, persuading them to spend their all before indifferent time slammed shut the last shop door.
He heard hyena voices and he saw splashed vomit on the pavement as he left saddened by this evidence of more contempt of what was once the numinous. He headed for the moors and his small house.
Later on, as he prepared for bed, he could not rid himself of melancholy: the world had changed, Christmas seemed stone-dead or turned into a tasteless parody of what was thrilling once, yet innocent.
But then from far away he heard the faint and silver chiming of church-bells that sent an aural spice into the firmament; and after that, from somewhere closer, came the sound of varied voices, sweetly blent, singing of shepherds and one starry name.
He smiled wry thanks and settled down, content.
Vernon Scannell Vernon Scannell died on 17 November. This Christmas poem, commissioned by The Spectator, may have been the last poem he wrote. It arrived with the following typical proviso: 'Here's my Christmas piece. I hope you find it usable, but don't be embarrassed if you feel it's not up to scratch.'
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