In
the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth
stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Images
of cowled women, resonant of Bethlehem, clutching at each other as if
to save themselves from tumbling into the coffins of their young,
appear in newsprint and on-line.
In
the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
Rancorous,
ungracious language poisons public discourse as food kitchens
flourish in a green land of plenty, where water flows as coinage and
no place is stable.
Breastful
of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Simple
offerings of food and pleasure, compassion and warmth are packaged as
commodities for consumption, while derelicts lie bereft in the
streets, until a sentimental pity points politics at care, but never
change.
But
his mother
only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped
the beloved with a kiss.
Spent
mothers anguish over their young, scraping pennies for food and joy,
breathing themselves hungry and bone-skinny.
Yet
what I can I give him:
give my heart.
Gifts
of the heart warm longer.
Take
time. And whisper 'no more'.
Shout
'change'.
