Saturday, December 17, 2016


In an instant they are away,
scrambled, at some unspoken command
on a journey which has only a leaving place.
Like angels on Christmas eve
they chorus into the sky,
nervous with joy
and everything changes.
Somewhere a child is born -
an echo of the fleshly word.
Somewhere there is no room –
and yet room may be made.
Somewhere there is light
in a darkness of fear
and a quietude of abandoned guns.
Somewhere darkness is swept
by greater light
and the flight,
the winging in beaten air,
is the beginning of a journey.

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