Monday, January 01, 2018

Another



‘tis but another turn on an axis
that welcomes another year
another opened eye
another unopened day

the sun also rises
as always before
clouds as grey, unbidden,
come, come and cluster
shed their tears
as rain
rain as wet as sorrow
rain as old as yesterday
another journey to the sea

an eloquent goodbye



The sky is eloquent
in its goodbyes
as the year
bows out in lights
before the monotone,
unknown,
of night
slinks in with shiny black
and a veil of mystery.
The New Year
will colour
with its every step
from the vaguery
of the undefined
to a kaleidoscope of experience.
The conversation
continues,
a dialogue
of time.


Saturday, December 23, 2017

Whose child is this ?


'Mary' : sculpture at Saffron Walden church


Whose child is this,
a cuckoo all warm and suckling ?
If I say you are mine
Your eyes tell me that you make me a mother
giving me no right to call you mine.
If I claim to have given you life
you disarm me with a smile that says
you will give me mine.
Your father has only spoken to me through messengers,
I cannot picture his face
although I know his love.
You were not conceived in passion
nor touched into life by intimate caresses.
Can I call you my child ?
You were mine for forty lengthening weeks
and, in your life,
you will not know such intimacy again.

Will you answer my questions when you grow ?
Will you let me be your mother
when darker clouds arrive
and I need to grieve
for you,
for me, for the child I kept, 
a loan from God


Saturday, December 02, 2017

Standing on the threshold of the season

Standing on the threshold of the season
......................................a song for Advent

 

Standing on the threshold of the season,
waiting for the darkness to clear,
waiting for the travellers on their journey,
waiting for the new star to appear.
Standing midst the songs of celebration,
waiting for the dawn of that day
when the tide of time begins returning
to keep the dark of night at bay.

Standing at an inn or border crossing
waiting, always waiting, for relief
shunned or hounded by oppression,
bowed beneath the heavy load of grief.
But still we’re on the doorstep of tomorrow
still a hope, still a reason why,
still a light beyond our darkness
an answer to the prayers we cry.

Standing on the threshold of this season,
singing songs of angels and of kings
singing, always singing, for a future,
singing for the joy that singing brings.
And the song began way, way back, in glory
before the world and all created things
when the spirit sang above the waters
and the tune, like feathers, formed his wings.