Through rolling hills and
Gentle watered meadowlands
We wend our way to church.
Quiet this serried place today,
This holy, often noisy space:
And quieted our hearts before
The empty space of death
Disguised in unobtrusive,
Lilied, wreaths of love.
What good is this, this slow
Determined dance of neuro-
Disconnection? A fertile mind,
A restless spirit and a
Generous heart imprisoned, yet let
Loose to dance another tempo,
Hum another tune, and ride
A wilder storm, while held in
Love and friendship’s firm embrace.
In Eucharist we give our thanks
And for a friend now gone
Make anamnesis: what courage
We recall, what mystery we explore in
Incensed air of loss and
Inner dereliction! And yet what hidden,
Subtle joy, what reckless hope
Awaits in bread and wine, and in
Pain’s broken circle re-connected?
On returning from the funeral
of Philip Wetherell, friend, priest,
pioneer and adventurer,
who wrestled for three years
with Motor Neurone Disease.
July 2010
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