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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