Monday, December 21, 2009


Sun disc pale and white

at the low point of the year.

day gives way to night

and the wet branch drips a tear_

that holds a falling world

compressing all we see

into a tiny liquid globe

hung on a silent tree.

While Roman steel is hurting

and their armies make us bow,

from Mary’s belly bursting out

a child infused with power.

We listened for a while

to universal love;

he conjures up a spell

changed the eagle to a dove.

But the dove grew talons

and his song became a scream:

a Church bore down upon us

where the Roman boot had been.

So we traded Church for Market

and the donkey for a Ford

but there’s nowhere we could park it

and the children soon got bored

and the banks that gave possessions

are calling in their loans;

their smiles hide their aggression:

they want everything we own.

But the sun will rise beyond this death

And next year we shall find

Another way to shield the Earth

From the Roman soldiers’ mind.

© Richard Lawson

December 2006

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