'Tis restfull - this wind; this Christmas blast
That sprays the trees like storm-tossed masts
Of a ship, just in from a vagrant sea
Now riding at anchor, safe in the lea
Of a land-locked cove where comfort waits
Till the murky storm beyond abates.

'This thus - at this season. Though beyond the pall
Of sub-concious thoughts we hear the squall
Of life's great tempest. But naught do we heed.
A brief respite from its clamor we need.
Relax. 'Tis this that we've sought this lea
Of solace and comfort from a storm tossed sea.

(C.F.B.)