The flight into Egypt
Behind them that beast of prey, that Herod,
Was still glaring doom from his trees of thorn,
Eyes bulging like a fox.
And so, by night, Joseph squired their secret way,
Prayed the morning kind,
Prayed empty the brigand-haunted roads.
Each day they made another cold remove,
With the infant swaddled close,
And their way marked by quiet nurseries of straw.
Joseph kept close his thoughts, measured each horizon,
Always with the rumour of dark hoofbeats
Thrumming in his mind.
And so they came into the morning of Egypt,
Welcomed, it seemed, into the green deportment of spring
With the scent of orange blossoms
And the air like cool linens about them;
And there at last,
Shining wondrously from the infant's face
A new light grew, resplendent in small beginning.
— Grant Fraser
Kitchen
Crushed pineappleButterMixed fruitMilk
Stir with strengthKitchen angel Stir with loveYour red curlsUnfurl against Your cheekYour white skinAs white as the milkYou pour into the pale, yellow bowl
SugarMixed spicesA pinch of salt Milk
Renaissance angelOr a painting by VermeerThe milkmaid
You are a Dutch masterpiece
Self-raising flourPlain flourTwo beaten eggsMilk
Stir on, kitchen angel
Stir with love
The Christmas cake
Echo your mother
Your grandmother
Down the dark
The bright
Many years
The smellThe sound
The sight
The recipe
Of Christmas.
— Anne Ramsay
patterns
these old domestic patterns
a summer of water
pumped through the earth
to keep the garden alive
& the lawn green
as children once danced a ballet
of sunburn under the fall
from sprinklers
& later filled the bath
to the brim & swam
the length Christmas
& back again
turning like seals
end to end to end
— Rory Harris
Grant Fraser is a lawyer, poet and filmmaker.
Anne Ramsay is a teacher who is passionate about student learning.
Rory Harris teaches at CBC Wakefield Street, South Australia.