Collected Poems

Beyond the hospital gate

the good nuns had set up a manger

of palms to house a fine plastercast

scene at Bethlehem. The Holy

Family was central, serene, the Child

Jesus plump wise-looking and rose-cheeked; one

of the magi in keeping with legend

a black Othello in sumptuous robes. Other

figures of men and angels stood

at well-appointed distances from

the heart of the divine miracle

and the usual cattle gazed on

in holy wonder….

Poorer than the poor worshippers

before her who had paid their homage

with pitiful offering of new aluminium

coins that few traders would take and

a frayed five-shilling note she only

crossed herself and prayed open-eyed. Her

infant son flat like a dead lizard

on her shoulder his arms and legs

cauterized by famine was a miracle

of its kind. Large sunken eyes

stricken past boredom to a flat

unrecognizing glueyness moped faraway

motionless across her shoulder….

Now her adoration over

she turned him around and pointed

at those pretty figures of God

and angels and men and beasts—