Almost

I knew you long ago –
before this merciless stage,
this ceaseless come-and-go.
I knew you in the faithful age
when you were open to listening,
and we were almost alone.

It was in that time
that I held you in my arms
in the light of an almost-forever: eternity nothing more
than the everlasting backdrop to our indefatigable endeavour.

And you peered out from my embrace and saw the world
and all its many things untested:
nevertheless, you turned back to me,
and, contentedly, you rested.

Then the world turned and woke up on its side
to a new day, and a new mind
of thoughtlessness and solitude.
You became an island,
and though I was a sea imbued
with all that we’d had,
I could not touch you:
you wanted to be sad.
You wanted to be alone and in the dark,
to become the one who would eagerly embark
on a thousand here-and-nows
but found that – in your starting – you stopped.

You think you stand upright and alone
not realising that you have fallen, prone,
from trying to move without taking a step
and trying to weep without showing you’ve wept.
If this, without me, is all life consists
I’d like just to remind you:

I still exist.

Holy Trinity

Ev’ry Sunday,
be it sweet-shining sun or angry sky,
they gather: and I with them.
In ones and twos we slip inside
(leave behind the cars, the trees, the world)
and carefully close dark slabs of oak;
the building, the people, the candles await;
the air, so full of tradition.
I breathe it in.

Smell the wisdom of the ages:
see how beauty manifests in the old.
In come the choir – robes in procession! – and
hear the voices of countless angels with them.
Heaven can hear the organ just as well
as any three-piece band.

On goes the service:
sit for some prayers,
stand
for others. But can you feel it?
Beauty manifests in the old.
Look beyond those ‘thees’ and ‘thous’:
there is a message in these words.

Imagine this is ritual not at all:
find your pleasure
in the joy of the ancient hymns
and in the deep solemnity with which
we share a taste, a sip.
Never mind the coldness of the stone floor
or the discomfort of carpeted benches:
don’t you see

the colour in the glass?
Do you not find the light beautiful,
a gift from outside,
an invasion of Creation?
The sun was made long before these candles.
Beauty manifests in the old.
Never mind outward appearances
– don’t let them distract you.
Breathe the air,
so full of tradition and hope and desperation.
Breathe it in.
Can you feel it?
People are meeting with God even here,
inside cold stone walls,
in ritual and ceremony,
and beauty manifests in the old.

Again, the New

In fine-line, world out of time,
sinking ink
down through summer-glare bright white.
Paper canvas, ready to receive the emergence of
deep-buried thoughts and newly-conceived words;
waiting, so ready.

Where is my destination?
In what form shall my aim be found?
I am searching, but not hard;
I am looking, but my eyes see only
the beauty of blossoming spring,
the bloom of Apriltide.

Earlier,
before the spontaneous speech
of bird-melody
- and rustle of wind in blue sky, green fields -
rain.
No lightness of April showers,
no sprightly descent of
pearl-drop shine, no:
heavy clouds, dark clouds,
rolling in over our heads and making us forget
the sun.

But the pain of forgetting
has been banished once again,
and now we bask in the pleasure of
being reminded anew.