Blessed Event

Round the three actors in any blessed event
Is always standing an invisible audience of four,
The double twins, the fallen natures of man.

On the Left they remember difficult childhoods,
On the Right they have forgotten why they were so happy,
Above sit the best decisive people,
Below they must kneel all day so as not to be governed.

Four voices just audible in the hush of any Christmas:
Expressing their kinds of hopeful attention:
Accept my friendship or die.
I shall keep order and not very much will happen.
Bring me luck and of course I’ll support you.
I smell blood and an era of prominent madmen.

But the Three hear nothing and are blind even to the landscape
With its towns and rivers and pretty pieces of nonsense.
He, all father, repenting their animal nights,
Cries: “Why did She have to be tortured? It is all my fault”.
Once more a virgin, She whispers: “The Future shall never suffer”.
And the New Life awkwardly touches its home, beginning to fumble
About in the Truth for the straight successful Way
Which will always appear to end in some dreadful defeat.