Despite chaotic shopping
  And the bitter Arctic breezes,
At Christmas time the milk
  Of human kindness never freezes.

It's slightly alcoholic,
  So it warms our cold insides,
And makes the mundane bus trips
  Seem like magical sleigh rides.

Christmas decorations
  Spread like ivy over houses,
Engulfing doors and windows
  And inebriated spouses.

My mind will often wander
  To one Christmas from my youth,
A time of awe and magic,
  And of certainty and truth.

Late on Christmas Eve I heard
  Some noises from downstairs,
As if someone had landed
  And had crashed into the chairs.

I hurried down the steps
  With no sense of trepidation,
But the person I encountered
  Didn't meet my expectation.

He said he was Saint Patrick
  And that Santa Claus was sick,
But he brought us Christmas presents:
  A single Lego brick,

A withered sprig of holly
  And a weather-beaten bell,
A crucifix, an orange
  And some extra-strength hair gel.

I'd been growing out of Santa
  (I was nearly twenty-one),
But I still believed in Patrick
  And the saintly deeds he'd done.

He sat down by the fire
  And he spoke about the ways
The country has diminished
  Since his famous glory days.

"Greed's become the norm," he said,
  "But greed will bring more harm
Than a team of cunning foxes
  Working on a poultry farm.

"In otherworldly gardens
  I have seen some wondrous sights
That have been destroyed by motorways
  And other landscape blights.

"Why can't people walk?
  It's much more fun than driving.
Leave a little early
  And you won't be late arriving.

"And you'll save so much on fuel.
  I know a man from Kerry
Who can walk for sixteen days
  On a thin slice of a berry.

"TV's not so great.
  There's more to see in holes.
You'll see some epic stories
  If you stare at burning coals.

"Characters emerge
  And they act out brilliant plays.
I saw one down in Wexford
  And it lasted seven days."

He spoke for half an hour
  About issues as diverse
As early Christian burials
  And making your own purse.

A talking horse had been
  Paying visits to our house
Ever since the sad departure
  Of our singing, dancing mouse.

The doors would all be locked
  But our talking friend would enter.
The horse's views on politics
  Were slightly right of centre.

Ours were to the left,
  And that's why we kept quiet
About the talking horse
  And his visits every night.

The horse arrived when Patrick
  Was discussing eating deer.
The horse said 'Merry Christmas'
  And Saint Patrick froze in fear.

He stared in disbelief
  Till the fear began to thaw,
Allowing him to realise
  That he had dropped his jaw.

He picked it up and backed away.
  He left the room in haste,
Departing through the window
  As if he was being chased.

The horse said, "That's a pity.
  I wish he could have stayed."
I suggested that his presence
  Would be welcomed if he neighed

When meeting with the people
  He has never met before.
Festive greetings send them
  Through the windows or the door.

I told him he should wait
  For at least a half an hour,
And start with simple sentences
  Like 'I just ate a flower'.

Or wait till after drinks are poured
  And quietly whisper 'cheers',
And only mention politics
  To those you've known for years.