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)
