Poems for Advent 6
The child's father - he stands by her elbow,
old enough to be her own. Aware of
the talk and whose paternity. But knows
what he knows. 'This is my son - look he has
my hands and hair. His birth was commonplace
ordinary and normal.' And from that
his story never deviate. But close
upon his hand her fingers fasten shut:
grip like a vice, the olive knuckles white.
Outside the stinking hay filled shed - noise,
commotion, shouts and bangs. Who knew tonight
but one where they had stayed. Then with poise
of kings, to the crude cot they crowded in,
and in amazement knelt before his son.