Over much of the 365 consecutive days of writing a poem a day writing I did between September 2018 and 2019, I was awake during the early hours of darkness, alert before dawn. While I have happily back slided into more slothful habits since then, this week in the run up to Christmas has seen me waking in the dark again. This morning I had to itch to write a poem , which I have been rationing to once a week while I have tended to other projects. But this morning, with the cat who three years ago was an uncivilised feral purring at my side, I reverted to how I welcomed Christmas this time last year. Little did we know then that he was destined to become my muse. He was then an outcast, who has now come in from the cold.A little poem is my Christmas present to my readers. I am grateful to all who have faithfully commented, liked on Facebook, and kept me on task.
Christmas Morning The sky is a greyish white as the first of day's feeble light illuminates the charcoal outline of bare limbs on winter's trees. Today, we sing out hymns to the evergreen, and of a star bright enough to pierce a world whose soul is toughened up and feels plunged into deep, darkest night, that cries out to be rescued and saved from ourselves who for centuries have long so misbehaved to our discredit. We have pained one another, lost the thread of our kind and our love. In vain we refrain All is well! All will be well! There speaks faith and hope. That's what we tell ourselves is the gospel of love. We wave away for just this one day the state of our dismay with gods and worldly fates. And with our hate. Let there be love in hearts and hands. Let the outcast come in and the stooped stand. The crooked is straightened like that angel perched up over the nativity's manger. For one day let us all know this pause and poise. Let there be peace on earth and in every voice. We dream of this miracle but once a year in the darkest nights, so hope may give us cheer. Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved