Glory To The New Born King

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Freezing, steaming breath
Shudders from her mouth in the dim shining of the streetlight.
Her lips are chapped smooth by the chill, whirling air,
So cracked and eroded to the core that they got all muddled
And did the opposite of what the wind told them to do.
The slowly drifting snow has melted
into drops that burn her pale skin to ice as it hits.
She looks at the stained glass window of the Irish pub,
Frosted with the fury and excitement of the season.
Happy voices sing sorrowful songs of the holidays that their ancestors once shared,
And she can smell the sweet odor of bitter beer and potato skins.
The church bells ring across the town,
Echoing against the tiered, worn down bricks.

Hark, the herald angels sing.
Glory to the new born king.

A small bundle in her arms – ragged and tattered by the elements
Wiggles and whines in her protecting arms.
Looking down, her dull blue eyes light like the Yule Log
Burning with a blissful energy inside the pub she dares not to occupy,
And she widens her cracked lips into a smile.

Glory to her new born king.





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