Waiting

by Ann Boaden

They are in minor key,
these advent carols,
because this is no joyful anticipation
of good times glimpsed like stars
over black hills. No. This is
weariness that drags the flesh,
hunger that gnaws the bone.
The wait has gone on
so long, so long: down the hours and days and years. It
beats in the blood like voices
of generations crying for release.
It is need huge as an empire,
ferocious as ravening wolves,
intimate as heartbreak.
O come O come Immanuel.
If you love us,
why do you delay?