Thursday Night

Thursday Night in an olive grove
Luke 22 v 39-46

After the meal,
the banter,
the revealing,
a walk in the night air
to clear the head.
In a grove of olives,
unready as half grown fruit,
He searches for His Father’s will
a sense of unfinished business
searing His soul.
Man-sense and God-sense
at war within Him.

Alone again.

The captain of a ship
with unripe crew
and a sinking feeling.

This can’t be right,
they are not ready,
this storm cannot be stilled
with quiet authority.
This is God stuff.
This is the agony of time
within a frame unconfined by days
yet destined for the breakers yard.
This is a pivot of eternity
and they are not ready
to be alone.
Alone as gods are.

Alone as We are.
Alone as You make Me.
And I am not ready
but Yours is the
power
the glory
and the will
to which I surrender.

The child in me

The child in me

Wrinkles expose the scars of time
ravishes of rampaging life,
the disfigurements of failure,
laughter lines of success.
These are not the projections
of childhood expectations:
sunshine for tomorrow,
permanence.

Golden fields pepper the past:
trike rides in everlasting summers,
snow ball fights in Christmas holidays,
hiding in ambush for exotic strangers
with red skins and feathered heads,
reading comics in bed ‘til ten o’clock.
The long walk to school
risking footfall on pavement cracks,
hopscotch skip and jump,
the gallop of Trigger
or foot drawl of Blind Pew.
Always being the last pick
for the playground football match:
disappointed that no-one recognised me
Roy of the Rovers
one day…..

Spending ages pondering which angel
around the manger was Santa Claus
and why were there camels and not reindeer.
Walking with dinosaurs fearless of their magnitude
stalking Stukkas in a Spitfire,
Superboy, indestructible,
needing a bandage on a splinter
a kiss on the bruise.

Fantasies of constancy in a changing world
where ‘there is no success like failure
and failure is no success at all’.
Finding, between the manger
that has no Santa Claus
and the black pain of a Good Friday,
there is room for me
and I am not
the last
pick.

Gethsemane

Gethsemane

To be in your presence,
as You plead before the Father,
we too, in sleepy ignorance of tomorrow
carelessly abandon today.
To be at table
sufficed with meal,
yet hungry for finer repast -
the bread of life
draws us closer
to You, to each other.
In communion care,
the stronger tie, the gentle grip
of ‘love that will not let me go’
broken hearts
held in broken hands.

Friday night

Friday night

And after the pain, more pain.
Deep and dark
loathful separation.
The black clamour of blindness,
the taut grip of death.
Time stopped: a different eternity.
Memories of friends and Father
the lifeline at fingers edge.
In this red-black deep
there is no passion, no joy, no light:
just the wailing of souls
and a tomorrow that never dawns.
The most recent of memories hold no respite,
the grip of nail and thorn
no gentle reminder of love.
And that last kiss
exploded
in the collision of kingdoms.
Yet I will wait in this gaping darkness
for the greeting touch
of a Father in tears,
three days of eternity away.

Devalued Green

Devalued green

Blue and yellow made love,
green was colour,
green was eyes.

You were pasture
greeting dawn with night tears.
Somewhere for sheep to graze,
for tumbles of careless lovers,
for last wicket stands
and the honour of the village,
for knotted streamers
of children and maypole.

You had an affair with feelings;
townsfolk jealously sentenced you “envy”
at a rigged identity parade.

On parole, in middle age,
you again heard the whisper of peace,
but, too old for romping lovers,
you waved flags for whales and seals.

When you entered politics
I began looking for other colours
in the grass.
You have emerald eyes.

and the sound of a wind

….and the sound of a wind.
Acts 2 v2

For an instant it was quiet.
Then the sound of the wind
like an invisible gatecrasher,
a rush before the rainstorm,
filled the air
a powerful charge in the atmosphere of time.
But nothing stirred.
the days gleaning of dust
loitering of the floor
remained unmoved
in its silent vigil to the heat.
And there was the sound of the wind
a gathering tide rushing sea defences
an unstoppable movement in the flow of time.
The sound only, filled the air
a wind unsensed by eye.
No tell-tale genuflection of drapes
no bowing of stems nor wafting of smell.
There was the sound of the wind.
But there was a sign of this invisible guest
there were beach-crashing waves
there were cloud-rending, life changing,
burning signs.
There were tongues of fire.

Ravens come

Ravens come (1 Kings 17 v 1-5)

A piece of peace
separate, whole, a shelter.
Here is that healing calm
haven for the tormented tortured soul
an ointment on the wound
shade from stinging heat
and the quiet place.

The ravenous wind prowls outside
the quakes of life are just out of reach
and the glittering of storms do not penetrate.

Ravens come,
laden with their offerings of bread.

The journey to find this place
leaves littered baggage in its wake,
sprawling the used clothes
and worn shoes
battle wounded on the path.
Parting with unfriendly comfortable chains
sears with fear
stabs fingers in holed unhealed scars
grasps and releases nettled yesterdays.

Stabbed and bleeding,
naked, robbed, blinded
and accused
here, only here
the small voice is heard.

But this place is not the world,
nor is this place home,
this place is not tomorrow
but a shelter in today.

Ravens come,
laden with their offerings of bread.
‘We’ll be back.’
Say the ravens.

‘I’ll always be here.’
Says the small,
refreshing, voice.