Traces of bloody after-birth sit drying on the hair of the newest neonate – red and wrinkled lying there
In a mangy manger in a simple, straw-filled stable,
in a paupers palace, perfect for a prince.
A fuss of farmyard animals filters through the air
And roaming through the room, the whiff of waste is everywhere
Flimsy fabric chosen for the rapid wrapping of the royalty
in that threadbare throne a modest monarch lies.
Seemingly sub-standard in its hostile hospitality
A venue for a vagrant not a castle for a king
The message of the moment is not bounty for the bourgeoisie
But dispatch for the down-trodden, deadbeat and despised
In the onslaught of outsiders, a surprising flock of shepherds
And the migrant mystic magi bringing frankincense and myrrh
Gold completes the token tribute taken for the toddler
Strange but select salute for the son
Once the final paper parcel’s pretty wrapping is ripped open
And donations left discarded on the busy bedroom floor
Take a moment in the magic to mull the meaning over
Humble hardship bringing hope in our surprising saviour’s call
This un-beautiful beginning, disruptive, discord, dissonant
Clashing with conceptions of the normal or routine
Radical, revolutionary, rooted in reality
In its frugal frailty, the message of messiah is that Christmas is for all.