The Sons of the Morning





We used to live in the French countryside. It’s the way they Mark Christmas  still…





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 sang the Christ Child’s arrival.






© franciman 2023
Views: 300
critique and comments welcome.
Notify of
Inline Feedbacks
View all comments

Living, as I do, in a place like you used to, I recognised some things you neatly describe. Personally – in your opener – it is that word ‘still’ that has great significance for me: Sometimes I could scream at the repetition, which is not really tradition (though it is) because sometimes it is just bloody annoying! Still, it is Christmas, good will and all that jazz, so I’ll forgive ’em. Bless us all, and may we wake up happy, healthy, and wise…


Enjoyed the poem. Makes me want to visit France but I will never get to.

Flag Content