A tale of the Christmas Eve


Once upon a time, it was evening and very cold one

For the Ice king was out, on his stroll thru his kingdom

And the Snow witch heralded his welcome; flying before him

Hanging up on trees, weighing down tree branches

Making even huge trees to come crashing down

And painting the whole forest immaculate white

Wood cutters marched home, trying to beat the cold

The snow fell trying to hide the pathways from them


Now the wind made the snow sail, smashing into the faces of the men

Across the frozen lake, a stray hound pack sniffed about

Seeking shelter from the sinister cold which grew with time


‘Ah, ah, ah!’ The wolf pack leader grunted

‘This is monstrous weather, why is the cold so sinister, 

And why is the government not working on it?’

‘The Ice king is angry perhaps’ one of the wolfs replied

As they all sat down with their tails in between their hind legs

‘The Ice king is mad! He is being irrational’ another said

‘I wonder who must be irrational!  The one who hunts others or… ‘

A squirrel was cut off her statement when the pack looked up, 

From another tree, an Owl watched the dramatic wolves as they huddled

The mice living on the tree roots hid away from snow and wolves

And the night was just starting to wake… 


The Night shows mercy to none who sought refuge in her

The inhabitants of the woods knew this very well

The Ice king himself was an admirer of the rocky mountain 

But the mountain has taken no notice of him, she was cold herself

The Ice king will sit for hours, musing over her, wishing up and down

Blowing secret kisses to the wind to send to the mountains side

But the mountain was concerned only with the snow and her cold

From the tall tree tops the doves huhuhu each other

Calling, greeting the snow and her queer emissaries 

Everyone wondered why the night was cold, why it hurt them so


The pathways to the village was covered with thick snow

And the men sought about, lost and eagerly wishing for home;

For the warm mushroom soup awaiting them

And the hot bath and a mug of strong black ale

But the cold night will not let them find their way home

It enticed them, showed them strange caves, apple trees

And the weakling of deers which could have been easy sport

But the men refused all her offers, determined to see their home,  

They climbed trees to see the vast land of white mass

Looking for stray smoke from chimneys or sight of lamps 

Though the wind seemed to take that off their sight too

But once, one yelled with joy as he found a glittering light

And the whole bunch followed him, walking fast in that direction… 


And when the woodcutters made it to the hamlet at last

Walking noisefully through closed gates and homes, 

They counted their good luck out in the fields, 

Trotting faster as their tongue longed for soup


Now from the inn in the village they could hear men sing

Drinking ale from cauldrons, they sang of the white snow

Her malevolence, her treachery, her trickery and her cold heart

They sang of her cold hands and the times it must be intense

And why all; men, flora and fauns must not trust her smiles 


Happy Christmas eve, everyone. I hope you have fun reading this tale. 

By Oke Iroegbu

Finance Graduate, Bibliophile and Bard of Ovim, his hometown. Read more at

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