“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 it 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 sings the baritone, 
Slow to start in answer, but then brings
A quick reply, slipping through the groan
Of shifting gears, trying to part
Unwanted noise and fears from those who wish to die.
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 thus taking their revenge
Upon their masters once again.

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

“Murderers!” I cry (but no one cares,
They go about their business, each aloof
From every still meaning of this night.)
“  You, with all your last minute sales
   And all your frantic, last day buying,
   You have lobotomised
   My Christmases,
   And still the body lies
   Screaming out in agony and pain.”
Yet though I draw some stares
From 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 tortured corpse.

“Oh come,”
The voices 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 things to come,
And end up by chance or by divine design,
Outside these hospital doors, contemplating
The life and death within.
And then, as if in answer to some prayer, 
Another pilgrim also comes, here to begin
The passage of another life.
A girl, still young, and come to term.
Her pregnancy completed, infinite care
Lining her forehead, wrinkles that confirm
Her in her beauty, leaving no room for 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 land
With memories of another birth, past
But not 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