A Christmas Specular

 


A Christmas Specular or Mirror poem

This poem is written from the perspective of Sister Water. As St Francis says “Be praised my Lord, through Sister Water, she is useful and humble and precious and pure”

 

Give me peace.

I lay down at the bottom of a riverbed looking up through the green, clear, water.

Up through the aqua ripples, up to the sky, contemplating as clouds slowly move across.

Dawn parts to reveal full day, and afternoon atomises into cool evening.

The dew falls, and the sun sets behind a green hill, clustered with trees,

the moon rises in the East.

In a cave on the hill, a refugee couple labour through the night.

The hardest, most unknowable work a woman can do.

At last she holds her baby.

She has sewn soft blankets and coverings to keep him warm.

She holds him so close.

Everyone is asleep now as dawn breaks, it has been a long and difficult night.

In the 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 good,

A prayer offered, a blessing accepted, health and life given thanks for.

The hill will play its part again later.

A seat for crowds of listeners, the place of cures, and temptations.

The scene of accusation,  a cruel death. Site of transformation, feet standing on grass.

Walking up cloud-steps, growing more colossal with every stide.

Encompassing the whole world in his heart.

He stands on the Milky Way with galaxies as his halo.

I gaze from my place on the river bed with a rock for a pillow and weeds for a mattress.

Looking up and up and up at the shooting stars, the Northern lights and the dancing sun.

Nothing is impossible.

Happy to accept a blessing of the season, content to give thanks.

He seems to say “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.

It’s the beginning and the end of the story ad infinitum.

He seems to say, “Good will is restored. Don’t lose sight daughter, of the hill, and the cave”.

Happy to accept a blessing of the season, content to give thanks.

Nothing is impossible.

The Northern lights and the dancing sun. Looking up and up and up at the shooting stars

I gaze from my place on the river bed with a rock for a pillow and weeds for a mattress.

He stands on the Milky Way with galaxies as his halo.

Encompassing the whole world in his heart.

Walking up cloud-steps, growing more colossal with every stride.

Site of transformation, feet standing on grass. The scene of accusation, and a cruel death.

A seat for crowds of listeners, the place of cures, and temptations.  

The hill will play its part again later.

A prayer offered, a blessing accepted, health and life given thanks for.

A coin for the baby’s hand, a dish of something good.

In that cave on a hill they rest. Gently neighbours call in to offer joy and congratulations

Everyone is asleep now as dawn breaks, it has been a long and difficult night.

She holds him so close.

She has sewn soft blankets and coverings to keep him warm

 At last she holds her baby.

The hardest, most unknowable work a woman can do.

In a cave on the hill a refugee couple labour through the night

the moon rises in the East

The dew falls and the sun sets behind a green hill Clustered with trees,

Dawn parts to reveal full day and afternoon atomises into cool evening.

Up through the aqua ripples up to the sky, contemplating as clouds slowly move across

I lay down at the bottom of a riverbed looking up through the green clear water

Give me peace.

 [First published in the Maltfriscan newsletter, The Bripper, January 2023].

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