0039 On The Morning Of Christ's Nativity Poem by Michael Shepherd

This starry dawn - the wise men yet afar -
the shepherds are abed, their night's task done.
Is Mary tired? Or, as one untouched?
All birth's a miracle; not less this one.

The cattle have bestirred at hint of morn,
the thought of feeding making moist their muzzle;
straw is rustling, as they, manger-drawn,
find unfamiliar form- so warm - to nuzzle.

What were the first words Joseph softly said
to Mary, as dawn broke, this day of days?
And who, sent from the inn to cattle-shed
to feed and lay fresh straw, fell still in praise?

How long, this morn, before the murmured sound
of voices in the street, as Word gets round?