Poetry

Christmas

The bells which rang out for Christmas Day were
unrecognisable; beneath the sound of
the gunshots which hailed down on Mary
whose blood soaked the sand, blanketing
the ground like a fresh mound of snow.

And as another bomb rains down, the church
choir sings ‘Our Saviour is Born’, ignorant of
the fact that Jesus Christ was reported dead
earlier this morning, the manger he lay in
shot to pieces by the big man with a gun.

Charlotte Elmore