'Twas in the Moon of Winter Time

Canadian Girls in Training stood
in the aisle of the darkened church
and sang in harmony the  Huron Carol
written by Father Brebeuf for the same
converted Indians who later martyred him
and "frail little Father Lalamont",
Lalmont took a long time to die,
according to my school history book.

It seems the natives didn't like the hymn
or anything else the two men had to offer them,
there at the Martyrs' Shrine,
but the hymn filled my adolescent eyes
as my 13-year-old hands  caught the hot wax
from a tall white candle as we sang
the words we had practised,
in the weeks before Christmas
and practised again that very afternoon.

Young girls' voices melded perfectly
as we stood along the aisles
and then proceeded,
to leave our candles at the altar.

This I know because I went home
and wrote it up in my dairy,
a hardcover blank book,
an early birthday present
from Grandma who knew I wrote.

I wrote that we stood in the aisles
and sang and then proceeded.
It must have been to the altar
where we left our candles with ceremony,
putting them in the sconces
in the high candalabra around the altar.

My account is missing some details.
"Midnight (Past Bedtime" I wrote,
much affected by the occasion.
I would have changed into my nightgown,
out of the white sailor middy with navy collar
and the lanyard we had to earn, I don't remember how.
Quickly, I wrote the most important parts
before I got into bed in the chilly room.

I didn't say how much it affected me
but I knew it did, back in those religious days.
Now I just have poetry and memory
and tears from a perfect time.
There's much to be said for that,
a few degrees from religion.