Night sings with bells; the glassy wind
cuts tracks along the stony hills;
villages draw their shutters close
and no light spills.
The blue is pricked with midnight stars
and pilgrims swathed in sheepskins ride;
a comet arcs above the earth
to be their guide.
Night rings with song; the barn doors swing,
blasted apart by life and light;
the mother holds her leaping child;
her face is bright.
the pilgrims kneel and offer gifts –
incense and lambs and myrrh and gold;
the constellations chime with joy;
love warms the cold.
Night sings with bells; the velvet air
breathes scent of herbs along the hills;
villages throw their shutters wide;
the dry heart thrills.
From Rosa Mundi: a sequence of poems by Lynn Roberts
(Reflections are provided each week by a member of the congregation.)