It is Epiphany, and there is a quiet spot off Calderstones Park in south Liverpool where the faded trees of each Christmas are assembled for recycling. The sight of local residents dragging aged fir trees through the streets is common and draws to mind images of Wenceslas and his servant, familiar from the many beautiful paintings in Christmas cards and songbooks. This poem was written on January 6th 2015 as the trees lay waiting to be collected.