Christmas. Seventh day.

I wonder, in these days of dark and Light.
That unexpected sojourning place
of dirt and stench and squalor: did it become
a haven, of sorts?
Did Mary clean up a cosy corner,
nesting quietly with her new born,
treasuring every precious moment?
Was that stable a place
of refuge, away from rough men
and foreign soldiers?
Later, looking back from that road to Egypt,
did she long for that short time
of quiet and stability?