• While Santa keeks doon frae the mantle above,
  the Yule log crackles oan this Christmas Nicht,
  waurmin' hearth an' hame by burnin' sae bricht.
  We coorie thegither, my wife an' I,
  voicin' oor thouchts aboot the day ganged by.
  A' wheest in the daurk we savour oor love.

• Contentment is treasured as flames inspire
  the shadowy shapes that lowp roon' the room
  as midnicht's chime filters intae the gloom.
  Oor weans, noo sleep (hiv they been up syne dawn?),
  their stoakin's hing limp, a' their plunder gone.
  Imagination stokes this magic fire:

Wraiths mingle in every dancin' flame;
nimble forms soom in a translucent fog;
memories brocht forth by a blazin' log.
Ribbons o' fire mak' sparks flare an' collide,
for thochts are flotsam in a fiery tide
that shortly disappear frae whence they came.

They vanish like dreams at morn's first keek,
tae loast coordinates in Time an' Space,
marooned, perheps, in an enchanted place.
Oor hopes for the Future cam' . . .  Och! sae fast.
An' Present, quite suddenly, is Noo - Past,
up oor lum jist like a puff o' blue reek.

 * * *

Scoorin' oot cinders ablow dawn's grey licht
(the Auld Year's cauld ashes ane micht suppose),
a stourie eddy in Time's ebbs an' flows.
A soberin' day tae contemplate life,
an' yearn for solitude wi' my dear wife
when the Yule log crackles next Christmas Nicht!