Martinmas

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Martinmas

Red is the color of a soldier’s cloak
Exchanged for a poor man’s blessing in the night
Met well there by a crumbling pagan oak
Ennobled now that vestment in angelic white
Martin is the name of that Roman guard
Between the watch fires pacing slow his round
Ready and alert, though the frost is hard
And spies a sad wretch shivering on the ground
Now does the soldier give him warmth and hope
Cold is the night, and yet somehow made mild
Exchanging his pride for a priestly cope
Denying self – the poor man is the Child;
As does Saint Martin, all good soldiers still
Yield self in service to the Christ Child’s will