Gibbous House

By Ewan Lawrie

Nicholas Nickleby meets Psycho in a gothic, 19th-century noir

Thursday, 25 December 2014

Merry Christmas...

Merry Christmas, to one and all... here is the only Christmas poem I've ever written...

And I Followed

And I followed.

I followed the caravan out of Saba,

far behind the servants and the camp-women.

And I followed.

I followed my brother Balthazar,

who showed me the star through the palace window.

And I followed.

I followed long behind, over mountains, through valleys,

where jackals roamed and tribesmen lurked with knives.

And I followed.

I followed though my donkey died, and my feet bled

and left my tiny footprints in the desert sands.

And I followed.

I followed though my heart was sore and missing Persia

where I had had servant girls, jewels and perfumes.

And I followed.

I followed to a tiny village, to a stable of stones,

where I watched my brother leave his gold casket

And I followed.

I followed them in, and left the gift of a wise woman,

a blessing of the greatest kind, I left him love.

 

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