THE CHILD IS BORN
In this darkest night,
Still and sleeping under a million stars
the Child waits.
In the vastness of oceans he rolls and rocks,
Lulled by primitive currents,
Caressed by the ebb and flow of moontides
and endless watery swell.
On the bitter-bleak hillside,
Starch-white with the brittle lace of filigree frost
he turns and stirs,
Pressed warm and moist in the fleecy shiver of huddled sheep.
In the ancient greenwood he wakes,
Pale and blinking in wintry moonlight and the icy
glitter-gleam of crystal boughs,
His first cry the screech of owls,
His first birth blood the scarlet drip of haw and holly.
In this darkest night,
This still, dark fulcrum of the turning year,
The Child is born.
Heather Shackleton
Winter Solstice 1998
