Christmas Every Week: Cows At Christmas
Arnold Kellett's poem tells of a new pilgrim vow.
Christmas! Pagan in all but name:
The Mass of Christ, the Word made flesh .. .
These days, who cares?
Oh, yes! Carol tunes for atmosphere,
Electronically mass-produced
To gild commercial cake,
A pseudo-Christian veneer
On heathen winter rites . . .
Yet, in the country,
.
On starry nights,
It's more like pastoral Palestine,
And here, in this cowshed,
It's as though the very beasts
Remember in some strange way
The Child born close,
In the smell of dung and hay,
With shepherds, practical men,
And the Magi, academics,
United in adoration . ..
Yes! For a whiff of Christmas,
I'll make new pilgrim vows,
Escape from the telly,
Tyrannical festive chatterbox,
And slip away to the mistal
To ruminate alone
With simple Christmas cows.
