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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.

Jeff Guess


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