Busy this time more than any other year
Our inn is full from attic-rooms to bar,
So when she arrives, and her time is near,
I have no bed, no space to offer her.
He is quiet, exhausted, frightened too,
Begging comes hard, I see the pride in him.
‘Please,’ he says, ‘anything at all will do’.
And my ‘seen it all’ heart goes out to them.
Above the garage, full of dust and gloom,
They’re grateful for this place to lay their head,
When sudden starlight fills the cluttered room,
And shines upon their humble, mattress bed.
The little one is born, and we who feel
We bow to no-one, bend our legs to kneel.
©James M. Nash 2020
