The Bunsen burner’s gas flames blue –
    a searing blaze, the hottest hue –
          that heating an alembic ***
              distils the oil from bergamot.
A fruity smell imbues the room
    with floral scents of citrus bloom
          from blazing orange acid fruits
              with aromatic attributes.
The cooled condensing droplets form
        an ointment that can stop a storm.

Water trickling down into the river:
from clouds God's Spirit, like a dove, descends,
as a voice proclaims, My Son the life-giver.

On the sable hair of our forgiver
droplets form, as Jesus’ baptism sends
water trickling down into the river.

Sunlit torrents pour down from upriver
their roaring origin, in stillness ends,
as a voice proclaims, My Son the life-giver.

The veil rips open, a golden sliver
illuminates – with bright yellow beam-ends–
water trickling down into the river.

Is it the cold Jordan makes me shiver
or do I feel a something that transcends
as a voice proclaims, My Son the life-giver?

I stand and watch from the bank downriver
this man who will make fishermen his friends.
Water trickling down into the river
as a voice proclaims, My Son the life-giver.

Three kings,
    (camels, brocaded silk, jewelled rings)
give myrrh, frankincense and gold,
  to the star stinking stable born, offerings
    for the keeper of the fold,
    the toddling Lord of all.
This infant will be offered gall
    seers foretold;
the hammer's singing
  strike shall drive iron nails, cold
  steel piercing skin like stings
    that spike him for my sins.