No snow
No ice
No holly, mistletoe
No blazing logs
No greeting cards,

Only the barren wind-swept stony desert,
Only long rows of dusty stifling tents
Packed with lethargic bodies old and young,

Which sweat and doze in weary dull despair.
No bells
No choirs
No holy midnight mass
No feast of meats
No hot spiced wine,
Only the lashing of the endless rain
Only the sticky ever present mud
In which each waits for a small bowl of maize
Or rice, or flour, doled out once every day.

The world, uncaring
Passes on its way,
As it did long ago
In Bethlehem
When a young pregnant girl whose time had come
Sought lodgings for one night, and was refused,
Lay down to sleep with cattle, donkeys, mules,
And then gave birth.

Frank Hooley, Presteigne