Third Sunday of Advent

"The Watchman"

The icy, skeleton fingers of air
in the coldest part of the night
claw through the tattered,
worn cloak of the watchman.
It is the empty still moment
before dawn,
when the coals wheeze
a last orange breath,
snapped to life by the razor wind.
His eyes survey the thin, distant line,
waiting for the bloom of dawn.
All his life, all our lives.
Waiting. Waiting
until he spies, among the rock,
a shadow running, fast.
He squints, stands
for the first time in a life
of bored, frozen, lonely hours.
The horizon flushes red.
His voice shouts, raw and hoarse,
with the question that will crack the universe:
What tidings, herald, do you bring?