OCTAVE OF THE NATIVITY

OCTAVE OF THE NATIVITY

In the beginning He hung in Her womb ripe as a pendant fruit. And the Spirit of God moved silently over the face of the waters.

Enmeshed in humanity, dropped in the redness of the stable floor, there was no returning: the bloody cord severed, the labyrinth left. Ah! to be strong again. To flash in the void. To choose and be free.

But they vandalised Him: weak as a kitten, removing His foreskin. A noose of spilt blood, this red tributary, loops down to the earth now; converging already, the torrents of death that will meet where He writhes.

At the cruciform delta His Mother is standing, A sad-faced Madonna, hieratic, rewinding the skein of bright blood like a ball of red string.