He waited the Priest a keeper of books
To search through history time had forsook
And whilst he waited a heavenly choir
A whispered concerto by the wind conspired
It sounded like angels in Gregorian chant
A distant crescendo precise and piquant
The trees on the drive outside bent to bow
As the Orchestral conductor queued the virtuoso

The hinge on the great oak door struck up
Behind it a Cleric with a hot fruit cup
He brought forth a volume compiled by time
On a table of yew he traced each line
The entry he sought a hundred years old
A christening wrought on a night so cold
He was not there but the author was
A child in the night to baptise because

The Priest searched on, no date no time
Examining entries line upon line
A thousand pages to turn in a day
His guest sipping fruit cup with little to say
The eyes of the Priest now beginning to fade
He reached for his glass to see all he surveyed
He ploughed a straight furrow page upon page
Diligent this archivist a quest to be slayed

In mortalis Periculo there it was all along
A child in the night born not to be strong
The baptism carried to the mother’s beside
In the darkest twin canyons where life and death ride
His guest looked upon it, a tear filled his eye
He said nothing but copied the script by bye and bye
The entry was his and he had sought it for years
His name went unknown amongst his true peers

He had lived in the ether twixt light and the dark
Born on a park bench in times that were stark
His mother a working wench no one to care
Displaced by forced circumstance that many will share
Now he could rest, this spirit disturbed
A ghost accidental no longer perturbed
A child born of poverty on a cold Christmas Eve
To a concubine prostate among fallen leaves

Curiosity sated, the Priest closed the book
The image of his guest reality forsook
The fire in the hearth spat sparks at the truth
Found in the volumes a child denied youth
Outside it fell silent a lull in the storm
In that room the wind whispered a moment of scorn
No bell book or candle, no ritual said
As the Priest spoke the prayer reserved for the dead



JP.

That was good JP.! ~Scott

Dear **Hearty JP.**: Much mystique
seemed part of that hide-'n-go-seek.
Once concept of late has
decided how fate has
caused Nature to hurt and to shriek.

That was quite a tale, JP!


I see that you live in Birmingham. My stepson is living there at present. He's been over there for about three years now.

Whenever I read anything like this, I automatically turn to the minutae of the human tragedies it describes. This moved me to tears and I can think of no finer accolade for a poet.
Thank you for sharing.
Ian

Wow! A great poem, JP!

Your story has such mystery, tragedy and sympathy in it.

This is truly a haunting tale well scribed and told.

I thought that your poem had a bit of the story of the birth of Christ in it because of its sense of humility.

It's so sad that some people come into the world under such challenging circumstances.

I'm so glad that this person had at least some bittersweet satisfaction after a life long search for the truth.

Thank you for posting it.

Best,
Carol

An expertly written ghost story in the spirit of Christmas JP.

I liked this.. almost a mediaeval mystery feeling to it.