21 DECEMBER 1985, Page 53

A Christmas poem

To have believed the impossible to imagine!

A god who turned himself into a son And implanted himself on our planet to rescue us: So ludicrous a dream, so grandiose Could not survive a breakfast-time narration But for the way it began: with working-men, With night time beasts — we see their breathing whiten Dark odorous air — and, admittedly, with a star.

Pulled from the sky-bowl, pulling travellers on, A star's a bauble. But for the particular Star-halting steam of urine in old straw And first cold cry, dim figures in a bowl Of beasts, we could not know the small Empowered us so hugely to imagine.

P. J. Kavanagh