Iallfall blir George Mackay Brown det i sine mange "kalender dikt". Dei sluttar gjerne med julebodskapen som i " A Child`s Calendar":
No visitors in January.
A snowman smokes av cold pipe in the yard.
They stand about like ancient woman,
The February hills.
They have seen many a coming and going, the hills.
In March Moorfee is littered
With knock-kneed lambs.
Daffodils at the door in April,
Three shawled Marys.
A lark splurges in galilees of sky.
And in May
A russet stallion shoulders the hill apart.
The mares tremble.
The June bee
Bumps in the pane with a heavy bag of plunder .
Strangers swarm in July
With cameras, binoculars, bird books.
He thumped the crag in August,
A blind blue whale.
September crofts get wrecked in blond surges.
They struggle, the harvesters.
They drag loaf and ale-kirn into winter.
On October the fishmonger
Argues, pleads, threatens at the shore.
Nothing in November
But tinkers at the door, keening, with cans.
Some December midnight
Christ, lord, lie warm in our byre.
Here are stars, an ox, poverty enough.
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