Murmur of voices and soft lights,
Christmas trees and coloured balls,
Shapes dancing on the curtained windows:
The cheerful creations of Christmas.

Soft footfall, head down, plodding –
Not looking, but knowing the scene:
Not wanting to look, but needing to belong
And have a nicely-bricked address.

Tears of the heart, neither love nor hate
But longing – deep drive for belonging:
Stepping sadly, no price for a haircut,
Nor money for food, nor bed, nor shave.

Passing the church and the lytch-gate,
He is drawn to the yellow-wreathed door;
Hears the soft choir and the calling voice:
“My dear friends, welcome and thank you!”