Buttermere Carols

On the last Sunday of the year there is always a carol service in the tiny church at Buttermere. It is very informal -  we just take turns to decide on the carols and then sing them with verve, adding in alto's and descants as we want, but dictated as to speed by the organ. In between we bring poems or readings or interesting bits about Christmas and Winter that have touched us or made us laugh. This was my contribution .
 
Birth at Buttermere

Suppose the Baby had been born in Buttermere.
The girl, hailing perhaps from Lancashire,
Her man, a cousin of the hill-farmers
Coming home to this mountain valley to be counted amongst his kin
Hoping to find room in the local Inn.
 
Walking beside the shaggy pony at nightfall over Newlands stony track
 passing the waterfall in spate, with the wind whipping a baptism of spray.
Startling a Herdwick sheep, ghost rustle in the bracken as it barrels away.
 
The downhill stretch - his woman white -faced with weariness,
 Worried that they would not reach The Bridge before
The baby came.
Slow, stop and count at each quickening of her labour pains.
 
Suppose that around the last bend they saw the flickering light of this small church,
And - after beds were refused, returned –
Climbing the steep steps between contraction breaths
Clutching onto the wicket gate with iron shepherd and sheep
opening the door
And finding a congregation singing carols in the waning of the year.
 
Supposing then, the Baby had been born right here.