Upon The Feast Of Stephen (Poetry)

The church was locked that bitter night
the bells in silence hung
the wind cut through the rows of graves
the creaking lychgate swung

The clouds too thick for moon or stars
there’s some predicted snow
and nothing living walked abroad
but savoured hearth’s warm glow

No cat crouched on the graveyard wall
no dog sniffed round some yard
no foxes prowled nor hunting owl
the howling wind too hard

So who it was who saw the ghost
the moment midnight chimed
is not recorded, strange to say
for those that have a mind

to question things ... but even so
there’s folk believe it’s true
a man appeared not of this world
the locked door let him through

Although the night was black as pitch
or so the story goes
the figure shone like candlelight
lit pale his ancient clothes

A golden halo graced his head
a stout staff in his hand
a phantom who did not belong
in this cold-weary land

What happened in that shut up church
the mice alone might know
but as though timed to good effect
it then began to snow

A blizzard fast and furious
huge flakes were tossed and hurled
and by the peaceful dawn revealed
a changed and brilliant world

The old verger found white roses
where the altar had been bare
and it remained a mystery
whose hand had laid them there

The door still locked as it had been
when left the day before
no footprints in the flawless snow
no wet trail on the floor

The vicar of St Stephen’s knelt
with his small flock to pray
and thank the saint for visiting
upon his own feast day