Therefore

Therefore

There,
in the congregation of all pain,
lofted in early eternity,
the darkness gathered -
a hill, a cross, a grave.

There for
a dark eternity of pain,
in the assembly of souls,
alpha and omega meet
to witness for once, for all.

Therefore
‘God has lifted Him
to the highest place.’
Salvation loosed -
a lifeboat
on a tempest sea.

There
for
me.

Hand

HAND

I hold fate -
the embrace or slap
the tender touch and painful poke.
I guide the pen that writes
the peace treaty
the cheque that buys guns
the poem of love
the poison of libel.

I grip the hand of a troubled friend
or push the back of foe.
I have what I hold
or give what I have,
retain or release.

I am the forked tongue
of a snake
in the grass
of everyday.
I leave guilty prints
in each life I touch.

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.