lo

In a tight, dark, hush crowded space a hiding seeking eight year old would pay good rolos for, it takes a bit of a wriggle to reach the shepherds.

Kings gleam, stars gleam, the angels' angles catch my knees.

Lambs flock the manger, stacked on pots for gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Teatowels, tinfoil, tinsel, glitter, card, sacking, satin, smocks, pots.

Camel heads, Buddha-lashed, not needed this year, are left asda-bagged and contemplative in the dark.