His coming, his second coming, signals the beginning of the end.
No-one thought to warn us about strangers
No-one monitors our every move
No-one much cares what we do
The adults inhabit their world and we , their children, move at its margins, seen only out of the corners of grown up eyes.
We go about our business, invisible, busy, following the rules of good behaviour.
We are nice children, polite, neatly dressed in our mini approximation of adult clothing, our suits, our gaberdine macs never really fit, just growing into, just grown out of.
They are scratchy, itchy, heavy, but somehow never warm enough.
We believe what the adults tell us, we trust in their omniscience, rebellion will come later, much later.
The 60s are slow to come to the moors.
Our lives, our landscapes are black and white, even as adults we remember this time as colorless, grainy footage from a film reel.
We want magic, we want stories, we want to fill the absence left by a dead mother.
So, of course, Jesus is in our barn, after all, we know that story well.
gentle jesus , meek and mild, lying in a manager, we are the new magi bearing stolen gifts.
We look to him for answers to questions we are only beginning to ask.
The police search the moors, neat lines with tugging dogs. Sometimes as adults we confuse this search with another police line, another moor, a final loss of innocence.
But that day, at the end, we are finally visible, uncomprehending witnesses, confused disciples, watrching the adults worls collide with ours.
It is the beginning of the end.