How to retrace the bygone track
Over two thousand years
And a desert of shifting landmarks, back
To its divine or mythical source –
It seems we have lost the knack.
Grassed-over is now the pilgrim way
Which men of old could plod
To find a first-born in the hay
And recognise him as the Son of God
Any Christmas Day.
Into more tinselled novelties
The fabulous star has dwindled,
Powerless against man’s weaponries
And devilish pride were the arms which dandled
That small prince of peace.
One way’s still open. Return to the child
You were on Christmas Eve –
His expectation of marvels piled
Against tomorrow, his pure belief
In a responsive world.