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.
Super.
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…
Allen
Joyeux Noel en retard, Allen,
I know exactly what you mean… though I must say I feel closer to the message of Christmas in France than I ever did in Scotland.
I lived in The Creuse, close to Aubusson for nine years. For the past two years we have been living on the Cote d’Azur (Var)… It’s quite a contrast…
cheers,
Jim
Enjoyed the poem. Makes me want to visit France but I will never get to.
Merry Christmas Ralph,
That is such a shame. I know I’m biased, but I feel sure you would love the visit…
Glad you enjoyed the poem – you had to have been there.
cheers,
Jim