UNTO THE LEAST OF ONE OF THESE.
Who is there asked the old woman as she opened the door?
The warm light spilled out onto the cold porch floor,
All she heard was the wind blow as she called again,
Where are you? I heard a voice as if in great pain!

I have a fire and you can share my soup and bread,
There is a place to rest, a soft pillow for your head.
No answer came, something told her someone was in need,
Were they too cold or weak to answer, too sick even to heed?

She took her lantern and held it up high into the night,
All she saw was snow and ice reflected in the light,
Yet was that a shadow along the porch just where
The chimney is? Who was it lying huddled out there?

She came closer and saw a mother with a small child,
What were they doing out on a night so cold and wild?
She carried the child, helped the mother to her cottage warm,
Away from the wind and snow, safe from the cruel storm.

Warm goats milk for the child, hot soup for the mother,
Colour came into each face, hands warmed that had no cover.
The fire built up until the room needed no other light to see
A mother and small child now safe, free from cold and misery.

No words were spoken as the child fell asleep and the mother cried,
The look on her face spoke the words, out there we would have died.
Soon she slept, the woman her vigil through the stormy night kept,
She watched over the mother and child, until, at last she slept.

When she awoke next morning she was all on her own,
No sign of the two visitors that to her porch did roam,
But on the small table a bunch of roses, perfect in every way,
And if you go to visit there, they appear fresh each day.

The following spring her garden blossomed and things grew,
A garden full of produce that the woman never knew,
She never went cold or hungry, life became perfect in every way,
Who was there that cold night? Maybe she may find out one day.

M Ann Margetson © September 16, 2001
2001/1552Whowas/Fantasy