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Jenny Hamlett

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Rachel

Rachel weeping for her children and would not be
comforted because they are not.     Matthew 2.18

After the mid-point of winter but still cold
as if the northern ice had marched,
like an army into the heart of the desert
I fold them into a single red blanket and watch
their gentle breath lift it, let it fall.
I do the outside tasks as wind harps
in the rafters and sleet claws at my wrap.

When they left a soft dressing of snow
melted, was replaced by the hard-ache of frost.
An odd family - there were so many comings
and goings local farmers, wealthy strangers,
donkeys, even angels it was rumoured;
they filled the stable one moment the next
it was empty. No man knew where they’d gone.

Now heavy feet pound the rock, men blanketed
from feeling by armour, spears and swords.
Doors are shut, flames snuffed but their fists
beat on thin wood, snap latches like straws.
I can’t say it. Each time I try a jagged axe-edge
splits the words - senseless. I beg them for my death
but they are pressed, have many more to deal with.

My beautiful children. I crack open the rock,
pile dust on them, but the blanket won’t wash;
it stays stiff with their red. Now with the hearth blank,
black as a starless night I cry, “Why them?”
I know nothing. I guess. This madness came
because of the child who left. They fled to save one
forgetting the lives of all the rest.

 

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