The Mystery Poem by Mary Spain

I marvel at the potent mystery
That way above me, shining in the skies
And clearly visible to modern eyes,
Are stars that died far back in history.
I see what is not there. And, what is more,
What is not there irradiates the mind,
Unless, like Nelson, I put up my blind
Eye to the heavens and withhold my awe.
The Christmas star is dead. The baby died
Two thousand years ago in Palestine.
Yet blankets of denial cannot hide
The rays of goodness, truth and love that shine
Through darkest night to some still point inside
Where, at their source, they mingle into mine,