an advent poem, first published in Windhover, a Journal of Christian Literature

MARY

I was kneeling,
at my prayers,
as I do every day at this sun-tired hour.

My head hung low.
My undressed hair
made me
a shady grove
where it fell.

My hands, tightly clasped
at my bosom,
budded and bloomed
like night-scented jasmine
as I breathed my intercessions

touching my head, my heart,
the fray-edged shawl around my neck
which was heavy
this day. I fingered it,
watching the shadows lengthen across the room –

they reached like vines
or serpents. I could smell the little world around me,
the scent of dung and pain and human toil

and earth
and death
and
something else
like
new birth, heaven,
spring-flowering apples
wafting
through the haven
of my hair.
My room was dark by then.
Alone, as always,
I heard the wind in the palms, the animals bleating,
the men bickering, the women gossiping
and my Lord calling
calling.

My dreams before this were different.
My eyes were open wide;
I wasn’t sleeping.

It was like a great light filling the room
filling me.
Terrified, I dropped my head
covered my eyes, but a warm presence
enfolded me.
Words whispered and rang:
Hush, Mary, don’t be afraid.
The Lord is with you.

I raised my head and looked.

I saw the Angel standing
like a tree before me burning
wherever I looked wheeling
in front of me
behind me turning
moving, yet
I never saw him move!

I heard his words but didn’t see him speak.

I will, I said.

Then His touch
like moths
lighting on my body.

I was small
yet
big.

Let it be, I prayed.

Later,

like a fruit I opened.

And here is my child.

(First published in WINDHOVER: A journal of Christian Literature, 2007)