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To the Stable

Down the subway, past the grey slabs of a wet December morning to graffiti strewn walls telling tales of modern medievalism down through to a cast iron village, corrugated, torn, twisted through the boxes printed cox’s apples.

Man clutches woman’s hand, woman turns to face man and through the deep blue of her eyes man catches a glimpse of love, love through the tears of circumstance which tell more of faith than the hard scowl of the church above, imprisoned in fortresses of dried flowers and pews.

Faith?, what does he know of faith? What faith could he possibly have in higher things? What does he know about grace? Did he not question the seed in his woman? His woman? What makes her his woman? Years of beer and football prey on his mind.

In his pocket the Council Tax demands, demands this, demands that, better see the man who demands. Demanding? Money for babies, a warm wet kiss cuts through his anger, a kiss cutting deeper than a slash in the face.

Hand in hand, walking past, walking through, the jingle jangle of shop window muzac, O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.

Dean Akrill

Last modified: 25th November 2005