She was so tired, as they walked along,
Only his arm kept her from falling down.
The child within her clamoured to be born
She was not much more than a child herself.
The hostel for the homeless, by this time,
Was full to overflowing, “It’s the rules,”
The warden said, not without sympathy,
“There’s nothing I can do. There’s just no room.”
Then, as they turned away, the warden saw
How pale, how ill, how tired this couple were.
“You could sleep in my garage for tonight.
It’s too late now for you to travel far.”
And there, between the Volvo and the wall,
While families awoke, that festive day,
To gifts and garlands, merriment and meals,
A baby’s eyes first opened on the world.
Policemen on their beat, seeing a light,
Came in to check, and saw the child, and stayed
Awhile, to chat, to offer help, then left
To go about their duties. Close behind..
Three vagrants from the shelter shambled in,
and stared in wonder. One of them bent down
To touch a tiny hand, and when they left
They seemed to carry with them warmth and light.
The morning came. Crisp air that smelt of snow.
The warden brought them down a cup of tea,
But found the garage empty. They were gone.
He stood a while, looking at the road.
He wondered where they’d gone, and wished them well.
He thought back to another Christmas Day.
Perhaps it happens somewhere, every year,
Perhaps it happens somewhere, every day.
By: Joanna Cooke
St Margaret's Church Prestwich 