in your sober coat and high, starched collar. 
Scrooge too, scowling and slow, lifting his head 
and taking his first breaths
was not the wooden puppet that I knew
but animate: a bitter, sneering man
I would not like to meet.
That little room of yours became a treasure box 
of small surprises – music and laughter, 
turkey and crackers. I saw the snow 
and heard the soft, sweet music 
of the violin, conjuring time and place, 
the clanking of chains
and murmuring of ghosts.
You conjured up a distant evening, 
snowfall on a quiet road, 
and then (your favourite, I know) 
a moonlit flight over a silver sea.
You carried fear and hope, frost-bitten fingers 
and a crackling fireside 
till we arrived, inexorably,  at Christmas. 
Dickens loved a feast, and you bowed out 
with bowls of steaming punch 
and plum pudding, music and laughter,
dancing and holly. 
You left us warm with hope and charity, 
blazing coals and candlelight, 
redemption and revelry.
 
'A Christmas Carol' runs at the Waterloo East Theatre from 3 - 15 December