[Byzantine Bindings]

Sunday, 29 March 2015

and then it started

as a drip
in the cave of Merlin
walking down the high street
in my head
amid the hustle and bustle
of it all
a stillness
a silence that announced its presence
with a gentleness
a soothing balm
and grew to be a brook
a stream a river
a great sea
a cloud
gentle rain
falling on the misty mind moorland
filtering down the mossy downy

It started with a decision to choose life

It started when the horse
given a bigger field
became exhausted
hungry for
more than the food
of freedom
lost  and bedraggled
fell to its knees
in prayer
laid bare his neck
to that which he knew
was there in strange absence
present in an oblique way

It started a long time ago

It started with blood
smoke and cries of pain and
mighty loss
death throes passion
engulfing sanity
lost and alone on a hill above the action
staring grimly through
black wood
cracked wood
scorched earth
into the action
gripped with a madness

Cutting through
with keen cut sharpened sabre
irrevocably changed
better or worse
the question asked by
guardian of life's second half
why are there seasons?
the past is now gone
the future will take care of itself
now is present
all there is
the impossible present moment
that was and is and will be forever


Saturday, 28 March 2015

it was this way...

I disposed myself towards something
put myself in the way of it
turned away from
turned toward
who knows
difference is dangerous
it implicates itself

Walking to town
counting the aves
finger rosary
like granny did
in the gas mantle light
of Railway Road

Then beads
strung together
a different feel
to life
Bridge Chapel
School of prayer

Opening and closing
breathing new life
into different dust
ashes of the past
take old ways by the hand
and enfold

The river tells its tale
of upstream
of downstream
chortling downstream
of mystery caught in the middle

Bless me father for I have sinned...
that's ok - we know
welcome aboard.

Thank you.

Monday, 16 March 2015

Change - the only certainty

if change is about exteriority
then perhaps there is an interior calm
observing it all
providential anchorage

if I say that all change is an illusion
I must know that from a place
of seeming solidarity
he illusion
of me

which in itself is paradoxical
if all is change
is nothing safe

if all is change
is not the mountain behind the mountain illusion also?

Perhaps I need to believe - have faith in that which is constantly the same; ever changing - and embrace the paradox of it all.

Saturday, 14 March 2015

Times and seasons

The change of the seasons
whisper themselves
into our lives

where there is knowledge
there con be no faith
knowledge is temporary
best guessed thin fragile
icy bitterness
muttering to itself

faith something else entirely
known without knowing how
unleashed abandonment.

Wednesday, 11 March 2015

St. Kevin and the Blackbird

wounded by the image
(or the thought of the image)
close to the home of childhood
stoic heroism
waist deep in life's coldness
yet the romantic endurance
surpassing pain and its contingencies
spur him on and on

at night time
St. Francis statued out of place and time
drops his arms
uttering a sigh that heals
the land for miles around
dawn breaks and before the sleepers
rise to prayer
he takes up his station once again

kevin of the two lakes
stigmatised with the twiggy nest
rewarded by blue speckled
glimpses of heaven
he stands in the teeth of gales
burning sun
blessed rain
grounded firmly

defended by the territorial cry
fed on song alone he stands
a living monument to the landscape
servant of the other servants of god
welcomed with outstretched arms
opened hands ready for the nailing
in lenten observation
with easter as yet uncertain

Tuesday, 3 March 2015

Crock of Gold

To re-visit
perhaps to come upon
as if for the first time
old friends
new light
a dip in the pot

perhaps this is it
fairly low carbon footprint

keep an eye on things
before they get out of hand
whatever that means

Monday, 2 March 2015

The Illustrated Penny Catechism

Just an idea

How would that work
drawing on the history
the histories
her story

time locked
sifting misty fragments
from solidness
of first love
Verdi's requiem
Sister Philip.

Splashing home
the short way
sloshing about
walking miles
ways of coping
with change.

Rote learned tables
spelling catechism
in order to access
the sacred mysteries
written on and over
memory imagination

Wanting to say more but unable to find the words/ lapsing into vagueness (as if it were a crime) but grasping at something as the river draws me ever to the sea. Starting again/ and over - stitching thin things with fine needles / plaiting fog / as granny used to say about the impossible tasks in this world/ counting endless aves on her fingers to the accompaniment of the hiss of the gas mantle's incandescent wholly otherworldly holy glow.

Who knows if this is who we are
or were
then or now
something etched
gloss and hue
endless coats
the damage done
thick brown-ness
residue of guiding
Easter lilies
wherein lies god
and stood quite well alone.