On Margate Sands

Cloud-coloured donkeys huddle on the sands

where biting Arctic gales keep rides away;

October nears, the faded stalls and stands

are folded for a far off summer's day.

A donkey bore the Son of God, its trot

through palms towards a crucifixion the height

of folly: Christ saved men from their sins but not

the holy beasts that knelt on Christmas night

to loll their shaggy heads into His crib

and warm with donkey breath a natal fib.

Their brother weeps with cold, so sad a stare;

a notice hangs around his neck to say

eight stone's the most that he can safely bear.

But then I think, how much did Jesus weigh?