Michael’s Sermon

On Christmas eve you stepped outside and preached
A sermon from the parsonage to church.

The words spread out their syllables and reached
An owl alone atop a piney perch.

The owl was blinking thoughtfully and pondering
What manner madman down below was wandering.

You paused and in the evening’s radiant chill
He snatched your sermon notes with owlish skill.

Away he flew (with you, dismayed, in chase)
Above the landscape at an owlish pace.

You followed till the owl was lost from view
And, turning round to find your way back home,

You preached again the sermon that you knew,
The word made flesh beneath the starry dome

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