A White Christmas Poem by Bryan Sefton

'The world is white! ' Your voice seems to shatter the quiet
The early morning scene is dressed in pure untrod virgin snow
We move along in slow soft strides, feeling it crunch beneath our feet
We are content, my brother and I, the whole street is our playground
My brother looks at me his face aglow and bending fills his hands with snow
And shows me the result. A perfect snowball.
This! This is Christmas. Not the presents, not the tree. Not the holly or the ivy
Or the carols, decorations, preparations that Mother is doing at this moment
But this, this white dancing gift from heaven. This is Christmas

'The world is white! ' Your voice seems to hammer the quiet.
Mother had told us 'wrap up tight, I don't want you catching cold
Poor Mother. Always trying to anticipate the future to guarantee
That it holds nothing but good and we don't really see
how much you love us until it is to late and we're forced to look back
Nor do we know that you are laughing and content
because we are laughing and content.
For the moment, the world is white.
Oh what a beautiful sight!

Mister Brown, the milkman, puts down his empties in the snow
And, making snowballs, begins to throw them at us as we
Giggling with uncontrolled glee, make a pile as his snowballs break upon us
And then with a cry of 'attack! ' We charge and Mister Brown turns his back
And beats a speedy retreat to stand at a safe distance as we
Sing and dance our victory. He shakes his fist in mock anger
Shouting'I'll be back! ' he continues his round.

Alan, a boy from up the street, runs down to meet us
Sending a snowball ahead to greet us and stands before us
Laughing his excitement. He, as are we, well content with his playground
Down the street where the street ends a dirt track begins
That in summer runs out between fields that are yellow with wheat
But this is winter and so, off we go to a battlefield of untrod unlimited snow.

That battle never went down in the annals of history
Those feats of daring never sung about in song
Never were there such unsung hero's as charged across the fields that day
When snowballs ran out and still you went charging into the fray
Charging between snowballs to drag him down and rub his face in the snow
All through the day, stopping only for dinner, the battle raged and the only winner
Was each boy in his own mind. Then Mother came along and said
'Come on you two, time for bed! ' Oh no! Oh please? Five minutes more? Two? Well one?
Oh please Mum! ' But no, Mothers word is law so off we go
Looking back at the battlefield with longing eyes
And Mother saying 'it will still be there tomorrow'
But will it?