Carolling the King

The world is decorated

for the coming of the King.

In mourning white for those who cannot care

or glistening bright for those who know He’s there.

Herald of the season, early morning frost,

bedecks the nakedness of trees,

settles on the lost.

And in the gloss of sunshine,

diamonds drip on passers by,

unwary of the wonder

with presents still to buy.

Yet all creation shouts and sings

carolling the King of kings -

spreading a white carpet

where red ought to be.

A harmony of monochrome

for those with eyes to see.