An exclusive Christmas poem for The Maker, written by our chief editor Lauren. Merry Christmas, all!

 

Ten after five on Christmas Eve,

with biscuit crumbs upon my sleeves

and fire roaring in the hearth

I watched the white snow pierce the dark

 

When past the panes, into my view,

Ploughed that same stable boy I knew.

Book cast aside, socks swapped for boots,

I ran to halt him in his route.

 

“Where head you, boy, this winter eve?

What warrants facing this big freeze?”

“A friend in trouble, Mr Sir,

Who needs my help. I’ll give it her

 

Then hide out in a barn of hay

To meet the merry Christmas Day.”

“Young man,” said I, “You’ll meet your end!”

“It’s worth it, sir, to help a friend.”

 

Then sped he down the snowy lane

And far out of my sight again.

Warmed, not relieved, by his reply,

I turned and hobbled back inside.

 

‘Twas Boxing Day I heard the news

Of Mary Manes from Hepworth Mews

Who—caught out by the snowstorm’s fits–

Lay down to give birth in a ditch.

 

But this fact didn’t stop my breath;

That came on learning of the death

Linked to the act: our Mary’s friend

Was that young stable boy of ten.

 

On hearing of her plight, he took

to every hill, through each cold brook,

To help her baby meet its birth,

Secure its safe passage to earth.

 

The story, spread the county wide,

Is told each year by Mary’s child.

I see the great smile of the boy

on learning that he’d brought such joy.