Christmas Poem

By Robin Perry

A December wind
clips the Judaean hills
and rough shepherds blow on fingers
or cling to sheep’s wool for respite.

Winter traders are all
gathered in warm lodges
and living space is lacking
except in crude stalls and stables.

At this time it was
foreknown that a light would
come, small, but growing, shining
through the dark night of these days.

The Maccabees and Zealots
had all lifted their swordhands
but fell as they had lived,
cut to dry bones on hard rock.

A greyness had arisen
and no hand would be raised
nor just voice speak out
at the wrongs oppressing this land.

But in a Bethlehem back stall
away from informers’ eyes
a light was given, so small,
but precious, like a candle,

dripping down hot tears
for the poor and downtrodden,
at the derangement of truth
and love - a light glowing for all.

The poor from the hills,
the rich in fine robes
all recognised the guiding light
and found hope in this innocent babe.