“Sing” and other poems by Jane Clarke
Sing Let choirs make frosty nights sing, let them tell stories of shepherds caring for sheep, a stable, a donkey, a star in the east, while you remember the road to the church in the woods, the battened door, timber trusses, peeling paint and plaster that fell like snow on the christening font and harmonium, the pot-bellied stove that offered a smidgeon of heat, candlelight soft on the bible lying open to Isaiah, For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given… Let yourself sing, diminuendo or crescendo, as if you still believed. Point of Departure A Sunday evening in January. My father is taking me to the train because my mother can’t; her heart is broken over what I told her. Just my father and me, unused to this time together, quiet except for the engine’s hum and the sweep of wipers but in his silence I hear a rhythm — he’s cutting thistles with a scythe, a gate opens into a meadow I’ve never seen. When winter …
