Poetry

Abstract

Blythburgh

for Eleanor

There is the place where I would stand,

outstretched hand sunk into a column

of pure, saturated prayer. For once

not worrying about following another’s

rhythm, for you were waiting where the light

streaming through the clerestory windows

was the natural element of angels poised

to swan-dive. There outstretched, where

for a moment I could breathe underwater.

Kilpeck Church

In memoriam Mrs Browning

When I described to you Kilpeck Church

– my parents having dragged my twelve-year self to visit –

I doubt I had much to say about decoding ecclesiastical architecture.

I might have mentioned the carved Norman arch over the south door,

but skipped the probable Celtic origins, corbel of pig with man in mouth,

the Pugin glass, a Sheela-na-gig, and dedications to St Mary and St David.

I suppose that most of what I had to say concerned the What I’d felt inside,

because you gave me something that approached a side eye, your slant

perceiving an encounter with the Holy. I’m reading from a later place of faith.

Though now I wonder if my twelve-year self stood one foot in that faith

in Kilpeck nave. A necessary presence, traced in glass and stone, in me

these forty years. Back or forth in time – which way do echoes carry?

At Tymawr Convent

I The chapel speaks

Place your hand upon these walls,

soft on rough rock hewn haphazard

into a house of prayer.

Trace each beam and upright

of the Stations of the Cross, scratched

into fourteen rough grey stones.

Put your finger in the marks of the masons

working burnt-rose blocks fit

for an everlasting altar.

II Sanctuary lamp

On the altar at the Eucharist are lit

two candles, and three and three

tealights set in a sweep of leaves

on the sanctuary step, but the one

thing that is needful is the faintest

light kept burning by the blessed

sacrament, day and night holding

all the darkness of the world at bay.

III The conviction of things not seen

At five o’clock

the chapel bell is rung

to call the community to evening prayer.

Thirty-three times,

the years of our Lord’s days.

Above the altar

the figure on the crucifix listens closely

as the thirty-third sounds

and fades away,

is silent and lingers.

IV

Yes my Lord and my God. Come,

scratch your sign on the walls

of my rocky heart.

And there was light

It’s Summer Time at 6am the day

the clocks have changed. Within,

the Lady Chapel broods

a silent dark. Without,

the dawning chorus start an inkling

there is something in the air:

Let there be light they sing and

flickers of remembering

catch in charcoal, flaring

fire and flame and

bursting to Exsultet! Be radiant

in the brightness of your King!

It’s Summer Time and everything

has changed. An angel

perches where the stone is rolled and

all is surging life on life expressly

as foretold.

Sowing seeds

I’m providing end-of-life care on my window sill.

May these seeds sown

in scrubbed-up plastic pots of compost

rest in peace

and rise in glorious juicy ripe tomatoes

fulfilling packaged promises of Golden Sunrise,

Summer Sensation, Gardener’s Delight.

Lord, sow me in your soil. Let

my frequent falls to earth be into your earth.

Be the answer to my questioning roots, delving

after nutrients. So my every death to self

gives birth a shoot, budding, burgeoning,

yielding golden fruit. Let me

be the Gardener’s delight.