The poker, busy, prods the burning embers Smoke snakes up the chimney with the sparks She sits and stares and thinks of past Decembers The wind howls; a dog joins in, and barks. Her man is at the pub; he won’t be too long The children are in bed; she hears them snore She listens for him singing an old love song, As he staggers, drunk and happy, to the door. She looks older than her years, the little mother Each of her four children brought her pain And soon they’ll have a sister, or a brother Her body is distended, once again. But though the night is cold, and she feels listless She knows that help will come from up above When Jesus comes to Earth again this Christmas He’ll fill her home with happiness and love. Dabbler |