CZECH CHRISTMAS LEGEND

Over white snow, dark contours, two drawn-out shadow strands.

One of them bent down closer. “Where are we?” — The Czech Lands!

“We need to stop here a little,” the paler form mused aloud

and peered with his gentle features into the deep dark cloud.

Neath the snow, fields in slumber, tall mountains ranged the shires,

light glowed from lowly dwellings, from churches, sombre choirs:

“Unto us bloomed, a rosebud,” through the mist, dulcit strains,

but the “let’s be rejoicing” seemed mired in tears, restrained.

Just underneath the figures, a cottage roof stood splayed.

Far watchman’s calls of midnight, from the woods, stray dogs bayed,

the darker shadow — Saint Peter — soft spread the cloak he had,

full of toys, apples, walnuts to give of, unstinting, glad.

“There’s a child in that cottage” quoth he, to his Master, “for us to greet

with a once-drab Nativity scene emblazoned with gilded treats,

so let me the finest presents around the crib array,

lest they speak ill of our visit; then let’s be on our way.”

Yet the first light-filled shadow’s already there, to bow.

Full of grace, kindness, while Peter frets what toys to endow.

Over the crib He whispers into the child’s deep dreams,

like a night-blossoming lily, a picture of grace he seems.

Whispers: “You, pity’s urchin, how bitter’s the lot you’ve drawn!

Where others ascend, raised easy, your lot is to struggle on.

So, strength in your heart I’m breathing, all strife for to withstand,

so, love in your heart I’m breathing, by golden starlight spanned.

All have their lifelong struggles, but you, Czech child, have more.

Where spite and rejection surround you, stay calm and self assured!

What of contempt by strangers? — When your own kin deride,

that pain sears, gnaws the hardest, and here it’s undenied.

So, strength in your heart I’m breathing, to bear your brothers’ rift,

to hold fast to your endeavour, your fist and brow up to lift,

so, love in your heart I’m breathing, ill-will to thaw, break free,

for when your compatriots’ hatred makes life a misery!”

Above the crib the pale figure stood for some while, and slow

held his soft hand above the child, lit by the Nativity glow

with its galleons, its herd, and soldiers, and citadel turrets strange.

And now Peter is finally finished, with all presents duly arranged.

He tugs at his Lord’s cloak saying: “Master, it’s time we went!”

But that godly countenance pains him, by sorrow so deeply rent:

“I am love’s endless ocean, spread to each way, each kind,

but why Peter, in the Czech Lands, is love so hard to find?”