They sing of Christmas, each in their stall, and call
on all good people: witness hope and joy
for God is born in Bethlehem, a boy
whose flesh was sent to heal the world, our fall
from Eden's grace forgiven, if we let
his promises take root deep in our hearts.
But all I see are bones and skulls, their arts
no more than layered deaths, a coronet
of jaws, a weave of joints now set amidst
these puckered arches carved by ancient minds
whose skulls sit still on shelves. There must be more
than this … the song that leaves a throat is fixed
not by the ear, but more a hope that binds
our bones to yearn for greater, safer shores.