The silent night was perfect
  For a spirit or a mouse
Till Harry started singing
  As he walked towards his house.

Another Christmas party
  Left him in a festive mood.
His soul had been replenished
  By fine alcohol and food.

As he passed the neighbours' house
  He stopped to see their lights.
They'd done their best to beat the dark
  Of long mid-winter nights.

The house just made him laugh.
  In Harry's drink-swept mind
It looked like Liberace.
  The lights would leave him blind

If he looked at them too long
  So he went to his front door
And tried to get the key in
  For half an hour or more.

A very blurry berry
  On the holly bough was proving
To be a bad distraction.
  He suspected it of moving.

He finally made it in
  And he found his way to bed.
The force resisting sleep
  Soon surrendered in his head.

Some time as he slept that night
  An incident occurred.
He had a sparkling vision
  That was crystal clear, not blurred.

He saw a glowing woman
  And she told him not to worry,
And not to blame this vivid dream
  On alcohol or curry.

She said that he should give up drink
  On Christmas's twelve days,
That he didn't need the glasses
  Of a golden drunken haze

To make the world seem warmer
  And a better place to be.
It blinds him to the many
  Simple treasures that are free.

When he woke the room was filled
  With a strong unearthly smell,
But that was just the curry
  As it made its way to hell.

The woman's clear instruction
  Had just filled an inner hole.
The thought of drinking tea
  Brought him joy and thrilled his soul.

He ate his Christmas dinner
  Without any glass of wine.
He declined a glass of port
  And insisted he felt fine.

The afternoon passed slowly
  As he tried his best to find
A way to pass the time.
  He didn't really mind

The stony wall of silence
  From the nieces and the nephews.
The aunties and the uncles
  Only spoke to let out 'eff you's.

He looked out through the window.
  This Christmas wasn't white,
So they couldn't build a snowman,
  Or have a snowball fight.

They could always make a rainman,
  A minor Dustin Hoffmann.
The kids were into building
  A disgusting sneeze- or cough-man.

Saint Stephen's Day was slower.
  It dragged its muddy feet.
The rain was interrupted
  By a heavy shower of sleet.

The voices were lack-lustre
  In his jaded inner choir.
The only brief excitement
  Was a minor kitchen fire.

Part of him felt sorry
  He was able to extinguish it.
Another little anguish.
  He couldn't quite distinguish it

From all the other anguishes,
  The weather and the boredom,
The tasteless turkey sandwiches.
  The uncles all adore them.

Harry nearly reached the point
  Of giving in to drink,
But temptation was averted
  By a sight that made him think.

His niece, Eileen, was playing with
  A present from her gran.
She was putting gems on clothes
  Without any aim or plan.

She put them on some towels as well,
  And table cloths and hats,
And also on the curtains
  And the cusions and the mats.

They looked like Liberace
  After she had altered them.
She'd be perfectly content
  Till she reached her final gem.

This reminded Harry
  Of a present he'd received,
His own clock-making kit.
  At first he had believed

That his present was as useful
  As a sweater for a ghost,
But when he started using it
  He soon became engrossed.

He worked on his first clock
  And the time just slipped away.
His time machine made minutes
  Of the slow hours in the day.

At keeping out reality
  It's better than the drink,
Without the bad hangovers
  And encounters with the sink.