Advent has come.

But the Advent of what?

Sharp clanging sleigh bells and presents wrapped so bright they could cut?

Of smiles painted like plaster  over hearts that wait in darkness?

The Advent of what?

Pressure that wraps like snakes

And drowns each one in gilt and dross?

The Advent of what?

Of whitewashed hope?

Of optimism as see-through as cellophane?

Of solitary, desperate cheer?

Why not wait for a different Advent?

One so poor it lies in straw

One so dirty that shepherds share it

One so unlovely that the unlovable can wait for it

Why not wait for a different Advent?

For faithfulness that always persists

For hope that springs from dry places

For love that grows green things in grey spaces.