Were there reporters clumped, but each alone,
pronouncing felted fragments as the news,
each nagging passing staff for interviews
then standing solemn with the microphone;
who knew that on the hour they had to hone
their flakes of dull to crisply-angled news
(that need not be correct but must amuse)
on when there’d be a child born for the throne?
The stones gave up the day-light’s stolen heat,
the air grew chill, the shepherds huddled tight,
spread cloaks to cover up their sandalled feet,
but fell, half-stunned, by flares of sudden light.
Then, chilled once more by fear, the shepherds heard
the proclamation of the incarnate word.
A Christmas Garland – 1: 25 December