This starry dawn – the wise men yet afar –
the shepherds are abed, their night’s task done.
Is Mary tired? Or, as one untouched?
All birth’s a miracle; no less this one.
The cattle have bestirred at hint of morn,
the thought of feeding making moist their muzzle;
straw is rustling as they, manger-drawn,
find unfamiliar form – so warm – to nuzzle.
What were the first words Joseph softly said
to Mary, as dawn broke, this day of days?
And who, sent from the inn to cattle-shed,
to feed and lay fresh straw, fell still in praise?
How long, this morn, before the murmured sound
of voices in the street, as Word gets round?