Christmas Poem 2.
I wrote this about a shed in a long ago garden, which prompted a short story and also this poem.
A COLD CHRISTMAS
A thin, fine, dusting of frost glitters
On the dark roof of the shed
Standing at the end of the cold garden,
Ragged green and silvered weeds
Pressing around the empty doorway,
As if peering in at something
That might be happening
Inside that freezing emptiness,
Waiting for a blaze of warmth and light
To fill the empty bitterness.
Well, that miracle happened once
On a dark and freezing night.
Now, thorn red berries tipped with frosty crowns
Gather as quietly as a whispered warning,
Resting their icy faces
Against the cracked and frozen windows
Of a place cold enough to perish in.
There was no glamour then and there’s none now.
No twinkling tinsel, no soft lights glowing.
Just a woman’s baby lying in a manger,
The ox bringing a bit of warmth to the deadly coldness,
The donkey adding a little more,
Its long ears twitching at the patient man,
At the watchful woman waiting,
At the shepherds worshipping
This holy baby bathed in lamp light,
Moon light and love’s pure light.
Until that other freezing night
When three Kings came riding
To this icy, bitter shed.
Bringing their fabulous gifts,
Their aristocratic knees bending
To the little holy King,
Who already had a thorn red frosted crown
Waiting for His head.
© Gwen Grant