The Crown

“...The man stands by the door
to guard from wolves and wolvish men,
the woman holding the nursing child
as if the star itself has ignited in her arms.
This boy, this boy gazes at her
and she at him, wordless they are, wordless he is.
She strokes the little feet, the hands, the brow
on which a fan of black hair as fine as thread
is spread.

Her heart is startled as the lamplight flickers
and she sees a spray of thorns—
the moment quickly passes and there is peace again
upon the uncut brow;
the child sleeps, sinking into her from whom he came,
mother and child drifting timeless while the interior angels
blow trumpets from the ramparts of the celestial city,
that no eyes can see,
chanting the songs of the many,
that no ear can hear...”

~Michael O’Brien