Il est né le divine enfant


We ran to the square.
A modest affair,
an empty open space.
Full of shadow and shade.
where centuries had made
their mark upon the cobbles.

A pure, clear light
rent the garment of night,
to flare in the bowl of the fountain.
to flirt round the steeple,
to pebbledash people,
to silverplate beasts in the manger.

And the murmur that beat
in the narrow old street,
told the world that the waiting was over.
He is born, he is born,
on this wonderful morn.
And the bells sing the Christ Child’s arrival.

© franciman 2023
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