Christmas Magic

The moths have got to Jesus,
chewed holes in his swaddling robes.
Mary as ever is trying to stay calm
though Joseph is showing the strain.

Children adore the cloud-soft lambs,
the sparkly angels my Mum crafted.
Each year there’s additions to the crowd
at the stable, showing up the inn-keeper.

She delicately angora-wrapped fairy lights
to show the believers the way and truth.
The best are those camels, humps swaying
with the weight of water and Wise Men.

I like magic as much as anyone, sure
I’ve written notes to the Tooth Fairy.
For me sadly, knitting is a bridge too far,
even if the Holy Family need help.

But the moths force my hand, demand
repairs. So I’m casting off reluctance,
casting on the magic of Christmas
and new fingers for the Christ Child.



Finola Scott‘s work is widely published including in The Lighthouse, Ofi Press, the High Window and I,S&T. As well as enjoying performing her poetry, when not gorging on workshops she dances in her kitchen. Dreich publish her new pamphlet Count the ways. She welcomes you to her FB group Finola Scott Poems.




Snow-Song to an Angel

I long for an angel
the way I long
for another layer of living.

An angel would prove 
those white gold lies
true. There are other

beings — high enough
to sit in Christmas trees,
guide us through snow.

Those who choose stars
are filling their minds
with Bethlehem and gods as babes.

I’m choosing a woman —
her halo-lit wings,
the promises she keeps.



K. S. Moore’s poetry has recently appeared in The Honest Ulsterman, The Dawntreader and Broken Sleep’s Crossing Lines.Commended in this year’s Single Poem Contest at Cheltenham Poetry Festival, K. S. Moore also placed third in The Waterford Poetry Prize (2020).




On the Fourth Day

On the fourth day—four calling birds
one drew you in—one spoke of love
the third was silent—was emerald
the fourth—a twelfth century crown

you entered wild—lupine
lunged at the first—listened to the second
wept with the third—a green lady
the fourth returned—again and again

four calling birds—drift upon drift
you entered wild—lupine
paw prints, a crown—a frozen river
eight hundred years—a tuft of fur

the fourth day—a gift of song
a sigh, a whisper—an empty space
spark in a cave—fleck of glitter
a winter’s sky—unborn



Scott Elder lives in France. His debut pamphlet, Breaking Away, was published by Poetry Salzburg in 2015; a first collection, Part of the Dark, by Dempsey&Windle 2017 (UK), and his second, My Hotel, is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry 2023 (Ireland). Website: