Resting Written by Tessa Thomson

This post features a Christmas poem by Tessa Thomson and a drawing by Jane Pobgee. Both are extremely talented young ladies.

Resting

The door was locked, the latch held fast

The windows blocked with boards.

Cobwebs hung around the glass

Ivy spread in hordes.

The garden kitted out with nettles

Stinging stockinged legs.

Hands held high to keep from catching

Brambles, briers and thistle heads.

Nestled in the tiny wood

Nearly out of sight.

Waiting as if stuck in sleep

The cottage painted winter white.

Silence covering all around,

No noise from distant roads.

But then a tiny muted sound

Of music soft and low.

Through a little glimpse of clean

In a window pane,

A smallish man sat in a chair

And smiled and smiled again.

He had a very long white beard

And wore a suit of red.

A fire brightly lit the room

As the old man bowed his head.

I thought he might drop off to sleep

So heavy seemed his eyes.

But then he turned to look at me.

The look was clear surprise.

Then I stood rooted to the spot

Afraid to run away.

The door was opened just enough.

The old man said, “do stay”.

“I’ve had a  busy time,” he said

As I stepped through the door.

“I think I may have seen you once.

Are you at 34”?

He seemed to fit the tiny house.

All measurements seemed exact

For someone of a rotund build

With features fit to match.

He sat me down with cake and tea

Served from a tiny pot

And started to let rip his tales

Of work, as was his lot.

And so the tales went on and on

About his working life.

And how this was his holiday home

Away from toil and strife.

He told of how he saw the world,

It’s good points and its bad,

It’s times of inhumanity,

And how it made him sad.

But his job’s not to dwell

On things he couldn’t change.

But rather to give joy all round

With gifts exotic and strange.

We chatted on with this and that

And laughed at things quite weird.

Occasionally deep in thought

He tugged his long white beard.

A man of gentle fun and mirth

Of kindness and of care.

Who saw the world for what it was:

Cruel, unjust, but sometimes fair.

He saw the harshness others shared,

He saw the bitter wars.

He watched the children growing up,

The scars, the pain, the sores.

He felt it deeply, as we talked

I felt his pain inside.

I left that night with greater hope

For earth from ills worldwide.

Tessa Thomson