Vibrantly persistent meadow grass dances rhythmically to the beat of a breeze

that breathes politely across taken-for-granted landscapes

carpeted in verdant swathes of emerald deep pile.

 

Flexible it bends before the strongest gale.

Ever-thirsty it greedily consumes the heaviest rainfall

yet dries buttery-beige under the summer sun

to yield, apparently barren, to scythes and balers

and become fodder and bedding

for cloven-hoofed creatures.

 

And yet, somehow, this humble dried bed-food

was worthy of cushioning the God-child

as confused cattle looked down at a new-born gate-crasher

wriggling, gurgling, crying, hungry and helpless

in their feeding trough.

 

Vibrant, verdant, flexible and fruitful times do not last.

But even that which has been cut down and seems dead and dry

can become a surprising bed of welcome and encounter with God-with-us, Immanuel.

 

*I am aware that this title carries a certain amount of playful ambiguity but assure you that this poem was not created under the influence of any substances.