Let choirs make frosty nights sing,
let them tell stories of shepherds

caring for sheep, a stable, a donkey,
a star in the east, while you remember

the road to the church in the woods,
the battened door, timber trusses,

peeling paint and plaster that fell
like snow on the christening font

and harmonium, the pot-bellied
stove that offered a smidgeon of heat,

candlelight soft on the bible
lying open to Isaiah,

For unto us a child is born,
unto us a son is given…

Let yourself sing, diminuendo
or crescendo, as if you still believed.

Jane Clarke (The River, Bloodaxe Books, 2015)