“Oh come,”
The voices calling in the darkness softly,
Whispering to me, and falling in confusion
Through the streets, in siren-like illusion
Of serenity, carolling unhindered through the traffic
That waits and meets them in surprise.
Soprano voices pushed hard against a Christmas tree
And nailed there, and there it dies,
Surrounded by a guard of moving sound, a quick
Lash from the squeal of brakes, it struggles to be free,
Then settles in despair to await its destiny
In sardonic caricature of a crucifix.

“Oh come,”
In echo chants the baritone, 
Slow to start in riposte, but then brings
A quick response, slipping through the groan
Of shifting gears, trying to part
Unwanted noise from the fears of those who wish to expire.
But like his sister sound, he too is caught
By the cacophony around that rakes his voice
With sonic knives. For though he fought,
He had no choice except to die, 
Accosted as he was 
By amplified acoustics.

“Oh come,”
They sing again, in unison this time
In spite of all their pain, attempting to arrange
And turn and change the world to happiness.

And so I come, alone,
To stand upon the road and stare
Upwards at the sky, in search of one unknown
But promised star, a sign of one unknown
But promised child.
Yet all in vain,
For concrete monsters fill the air
In architectural imitation of Stonehenge,
And block my view of heaven.
These stones will take their revenge
Upon their masters once again.

I scream, in anguish
And in agonising anger, still hoping for reproof,
But hopelessly, for all hope has been rended
From this earth in order to conform with the wish
Of all these pagan Christmas revellers.

“Murderers!” I cry, but no one cares,
They go about their business, each aloof
From every still meaning of this night.
“  You, last minute with all your sales
   And all your frantic, last day buying,
   You have lobotomised
   All our needed Christmases,
   And still the bodies lies
   Weeping through their torment and their torture.”
Yet though some gawk and glare
At me with wondering eyes that view
This madman with alarm and fright,
They do not even see the nails
That they have hammered into the dying,
Broken hands of this mutilated corpse.

“Oh come,”
The choir calls, still singing for my ears,
Their voices remain, still unconvinced
Of this present tragedy.

And so I come, still waiting
For some sign of a different thing,
And end, by chance or by divine design,
Outside these hospital doors, contemplating
The life and death within.
As if in rebuttal to my prayer, 
Another pilgrim also comes, here to begin
The passage of another life.
A woman, no, but a girl, come to term.
Her pregnancy completed, infinite care
And tiredness line her face, wrinkles that confirm
Her in her beauty, masked smile banishing strife.

“Oh come,”
Though later than they think,
For in the east begins already a shining light,
The carollers continue through the night.
The only interruption coming from the cries
Of one, like one before in Bethlehem,
Too young to hear, too small to understand.
Yet this crumpled pink
And hungry living piece of flesh
Shall mesh
With the world and fill the city
With memories of another birth, past
But still incomplete, two thousand years ago,
Two thousand years to come.

“Oh come,”
I sing, at peace at last:
This answer is beyond rebuke.

Then the angel of the Lord said, “Do not be afraid, 
for I bring you news of a great joy ... 
Today, in the town of David, 
a saviour is born to you, who is Christ the Lord.”

1976