The Christmas Gift
The season of storms is upon us,
but a recent, magical day,
gave us the gift of
the estuary, stilled and low sunlight warmed,
the plumped, moss banked waters, becalmed.
I look up at our house
the farm nestling on the hill, where
your window is soft lit
and the fire burns within,
and I am so very fortunate to be
glad homed and hearthed,
Yet in Syria the snow is falling,
refugees flee, no journey’s end,
troubled children cry in the Philippines
desolation and ruin beckon in South Sudan,
here, our homeless shiver as sleet descends
no comfort at fireside,
no family, few friends.
On the estuary, the oyster catchers carol and trill,
as the sanderlings stuttered seaside run
the breeze unfettered, unzipped, undone,
whilst the cry of the gulls, mourns and chides
and the white lipped tide tumbles, salt water sprayed and spun,
open mouthed for the gathering chill.
And in the early hours,
by now, rain and wind maddened,
on my radio as I lie
enveloped in the duveted darkness
as the World is Served by the BBC
I learn that, in Yemen
young girls find themselves sold as child brides
no gifts to share,
precious little charity?
But I am loved, cosseted and cared for
neither cavalier nor complacent, this much I know
but grateful, sometimes almost guilty
that life, the world should spare me so.
And so, a few days before Christmas,
I turned for home,
such a very precious phrase.
And, if I had a wish for these
and future days,
and could share it with the mountain’s Saint,
Brynnach, lingering – perhaps – above.
I would ask this Christmas Gift,
for the world, love,
there must be love.