The Labour

I don’t write many poems. But here’s one that you can use for Christmas and Easter interchangeably …

The Labour

The stable was dark and rank
On that fateful, cosmic night;
And light seeped through the dusty cracks
As a man made a bed for his wife.

The woman was in torment
As the labour pains began;
And she closed her eyes to see the dream
Of the child and the future man.

As the passion reached its hilt
Her nails gouged a wooden door;
She saw a cross soaked in blood and
Wondered what it was for.

She saw a soldier take a stick
– a sponge to a dying man;
She drank sour wine to calm the pain
But a deeper thirst began.

Cool water bathed her brow and cheeks
And tears splashed on the floor;
Then sudden pain, a spear-sharp jab,
As blood and water poured.

With one last push her child was free
And she clutched him as she cried;
Her soul was rent, she knew that face:
His birth, His death, His life.

Fiona Veitch Smith (one of my rare poems)

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