With a week to go befiore Christmas, I thought I'd ignore the noise and controversy and focus instead on music and hope
Mary sang, a fine contralto, deep and pure.
Joseph played bass, metronomic, steady,
the beat nailed to the floor.
He thought the boy should play guitar
and made him one from fine cedar;
strings of camel gut, fret board inlaid
with finest golden sand;
a masterpiece of craftsman’s eye,
craftsman’s insight, craftsman’s hand,
but as it turned out the boy
made music all his own,
unique in style, in sensitivity, in tone,
and when the townsfolk heard him sing,
hearts lifted, cares fell away;
it seemed to them they heard bells ring
and hope was born to see them through the day.
First published in the Mole Valley Poets Christmas Anthology 2019