Harold Macdonald's Muse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Harold Macdonald Christmas Poetry

 

 

 

Christmas Eve

 

 

Harold Macdonald

Gusting snow flies down the half-harrowed road

not yet plowed. Hustling, they hurry slogging forward

through the hellish wind puffing hard, heated by

their hubris, the hauteur of hardship in the high cold.

 

Myth-bound, shaken by stuttering truths

hearts cradle hope like a spluttering fire:

somewhere barn animals stamp feet; an angelic choir

sings in the field and a babe sleeps among the brutes.

 

Shivering, they arrive; the play begins, no lack

of towels, dressing gowns, a veil of blue.

Children enact the story believing it is true:

this shortest day, this night of longest black.

 

 

 

Midi: Some Children See Him...

Background: Star of Bethlehem

Site of the Holy Nativity