A favourite Feast.
Spices perfume the air,
incense ascends and disappears,
the glint of real gold,
the bitter release of ground myrrh,
the rustle of eastern robes,
the unforgettable smell of camels;
and all covered with layers
of fine dust from the night fire.
And all coming to rest,
not in a lush palatial oasis-
a place with servants
running for jugs of scented water,
and for fruit and spicy meats,
and dancers to entertain.
But a place full of hay and rotting wood,
smelling of sweaty animals 
and left-over food begged from a nearby inn.
No haloes glowing,
no cherubs floating,
not a flap of distant angel-wings,
and no retinue of constant visitors.
Just a few gawping shepherds
plodding back to work.
Nothing said, no great speeches,
but bowing low
and silently offering gifts
that seem so out of place.
 
And what was understood?
What inner message shone through
the outward sign?
What was shown forth?
Only God knows.
So rather than place more words into the scene,
come and enter the silence,
Bow low with the whole of your life
and let the mystery speak and shape you
and invite you in
to a mystery as new as it is old.