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; no 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?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The ease with which your wondrous words appear, like J S Bach is music to mine ear. Michael you take the Christian story out of the mothballs and place it fair and square in the twenty first century. A heart-warming read. love, Allie xxxx