Christmas Day dawned over the Common,
The grass was frosted and white.
A rising sun glinted on the workhouse door
And the windows were dazzling bright.
A single chimney exhaled thin smoke
And the fire gave little warmth within.
There was only a loaf on the kitchen shelf
And the occupants were pathetically thin.
A woman ran barefoot across the cold grass
In an uncomfortable and desperate gait.
She urgently needed somewhere to give birth
Knowing her child could not wait.
She was welcomed into that wretched abode,
The workhouse was basic and poor.
They’d not turn her away on Christmas Day
There was always room for one more.
There would be no gifts to welcome the child,
And only borrowed rags to keep out the cold.
But kindness and help from a complete stranger
Were more precious than money or gold.
There was also a comparable situation
Which took place many centuries ago,
When an expectant woman sought shelter –
But the rest, of course, you know.
Freya Basson