Christmas Day Poem

How can it be Christmas? This year Christmas is set on its ears.
The lead up, the preparations, the time of penance and charity.
I have been most unwholesome, unhappy, grumpy, sullen, angry,
and at odds with all things Christmas.
Grinchy Christmas tree, begrudging decorations, baking that has gone in the bin.
I want to be quiet,
I want to be silent, I want to be in myself with God.
I don’t want to party or be festive
I don’t want to party or be festive
I don’t want a load of nonsense chatter and small talk.
I want peace
I want to lay down at the bottom of a riverbed looking up through the green clear water
Up through the aqua ripples up to the sky
And watch as clouds slowly move across
And dawn parts to reveal full day and afternoon atomises into cool even
And the dew falls and the sun falls behind a green hill
Clustered with trees and the moon rises from the opposite side of the hill
And still I lie peaceful
Soundless, quiet and at rest under the water looking up and watching and watching.
Waiting and waiting
At last I see in a cave on the hill a refugee couple labour through the night
The hardest work, the most difficult, confusing, unknowable, painful work a woman can do.
She works all night, watched, guarded, kept safe by her man. And some sheep
A goat, a cow some chickens.
And at the end of her nights work she holds the fruit of her labour, a baby.
She has sewn soft blankets and coverings to keep him warm
and she holds him so close
Everyone is asleep now as dawn breaks, it’s been a long and difficult night.
Now the danger is over she snuggles with her son nestled close to her and she sleeps too.
The first hard work of life is to make the journey from warmth and safety into the breezy world so loud and bright and unexpected.
In that cave on a hill they rest. Gently neighbours call in to offer joy and congratulations
A coin for the baby’s hand, a dish of something hot for the mother,
A prayer offered, a blessing accepted, health and life given thanks for.
And the hill will play its part again later.
A seat for crowds of listeners, a gog at the stories and illustrations he will give,
The place of miraculous cures and healings and temptations,
The hill where a heard of swine all jumped off possessed,
The scene of accusation, torture and a cruel death.
But this hill with its cave is also the site of redemption, the place of the ultimate miracle
 Life regained and claimed
Feet on the ground standing on grass
Feet that were nailed
Now walking, living.
Not dead – alive, back alive again and walking up cloud steps growing larger
And more colossal with every step higher
until he encompasses the whole world in his heart
and he stands on the Milky Way with the planets as his halo.
And from my place at the bed of the river with a rock for a pillow and weeds for a mattress
Looking up and up and up at the shooting stars
And the Northern lights and the dancing sun.
I know that nothing is impossible for him.
And I am happy to accept a blessing of the season, and I am content to give thanks
For the season, and good will is restored.
Don’t lose sight daughter
Of the hill,
And the cave
It’s the beginning and the end of the story ad infinitum.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Collect Art Publication July 2023

Image
 First published in Collect Arts Summer 2023 edition Stone all the flowers   The year of the art school tutorials. The difficult woman you are to me, and the difficulty I present to you. The year of my recovery and your husband’s death.   Your husband fails and worsens through the days of our trimesters together. As he weakens and declines, I grow incrementally stronger. As if terrible fatalistic scales of balance, set and reset.   Do not cheat her. Give her a full measure of time and experiences with him. Pressed down, shaken together and overflowing. She, in the face of all this decay   Chooses to destroy flowers with stones. Until their purple hearts stained the cartridge with their elemental pigments.   She cuts the flowers only to waste them in the parching sun. It is the cycle of being and unbeing, the grass withers and the flower fades (Isiah 40:8). She decides to press her flowers till their lungs burst on fine co...
Read more
Image
Blackbird Egg Time slows down in the Victorian mirror. She is haunted by every face that checked themselves in the glass. She is on the cusp. A life about to begin in earnest, on the tipping point of adulthood. On the apex of future relationships, sexuality and desire. “Yes” she says, “that’s me in the mirror”, long brown hair, grey-blue eyes. She is just an ordinary brown bird. But common or garden blackbirds create sky eggs, objects of beauty and desire. Each one speckled slightly differently in the genus. If only she can create of herself such an object of yearning, her small brownness will be worth the transformation. On the Hall-stand crafted in a grand antique style, are a collection of blackbird’s eggs. Saved in small glass containers with their lids tight shut. Through the glass she sees pale blue specked eggs, broken with raggedy edges. The armoire ominously overshadows her slight fourteen year old self. Whom she sees reflected back in multiple mirrors, framed in the warm glea...
Read more

Chap Book #3 Gone With The Wind

Image
  Delighted to be published in:-  https://www.cistaarts.com/product-page/chapbook-series-3-gone-with-the-wind Learning craft from the wind   There was once a woman. Who learned craft from wind, art from the sea and design from the earth. She sewed intricate organic patterns in labyrinthine repeats. Her creativity was celebrated through the land. She was known as La Corachine, beautiful shell of the sea. Her daughter Powys was as natural as the elements, precious as comfort and radiant with gold-nature. One day an old woman coloured like an autumn day came to their door. “I want what is yours.” She said, and stuck a pin into the girl, who transformed into a brown-bird and flew off. “Old woman”, cried the mother, please cook a meat and potato pie for us. “Of course”, she sang, catching the brown-bird-daughter. And made her into a pie with potato skins. The leftover bones she threw into a corner of the garden. In three days, a beautiful tree g...
Read more