....UNTIL

My Good Friday reflection ended on the single note of uncertain waiting – “...Until?”
Holy Saturday, as it turned out, was a gardening day, and I found myself inadvertently sucked into a long –overdue demolition job on an old greenhouse. It was hot, tiring, bruising work, and the debris was left overnight all over the lawn – a pile of rotten roofing sheets, several bundles of metal spars, a collection of wire and cables cut from its overgrown interior, and a large heap of chopped undergrowth awaiting a trip to the local tip. And then waking early, “on the Sunday morning”, I came to the garden – not with ointment, but with a cup of tea!

The story continues:


…..UNTIL

The pregnant silence of the early morning light.
A lonely heron lazily flaps across
The space between what’s gone
And what is yet to be.

To this suburban garden comes the sun
Suffusing in its mellow misted innocence
A passing plane; a flock of geese high-flying
On the breakfast run.

Fallen blossom bedecks the still parched lawn
And there, by it adorned, a tangled heap of
Metal spars laid out as if for burial, the
Aftermath of demolition yesterday.

Knotted ropes are there as well, perchance a
Whip has done its work and now lies idle
Whispering “It was not I – I did not know
The man”. And tangled roots, a knotted crown.

But with the coming of the sun, the little birds
Take up the victory cry: they sing of life:
They chirrup healing over all that has been
Broken, all that bled, and wept and died.

A dove with wings set low for landing
Swoops to its chimney haunt; and in its
Passing glance it names my name
And peacefully proclaims “This is the day! –

Christus resurrexit!”


Easter Morning, April 2011

ANOTHER KIND OF HOST

There’s flour and water,
And perhaps a little salt.
A few sticks, fire, and a
Crumbling mud-bricked
Oven. The rest is kneaded
Through the work-worn
Hands of often unknown
Women, the much exploited
Mothers of the world.

And then they gather in an
Urban tenement, an Upper
Room, discreetly chosen,
Safe – if anywhere is left
That’s free from fear or
Ambiguity. They come from
Far and near: known and
Unknown, nameless and named.

Zimbabwe’s there, her faithful
People pleading for the rule of
Law. Libyans too, longing for
Freedom and another future.
They weep, the divided peoples
Of Sri Lanka, broken apart,
As bread is broken: aftermath of
War and racial arrogance.

Around the table too, hurting Jew
And Palestinian, struggling with
Their ancestry, a hospitality still
Longed for but denied. And from the
West, proud bankers sit in quiet
Contemplation of the ashes of their
Dreams. For all the world is there,
Where bread is broken, wine outpoured.

This broken bread “This is my Body”:
And in this cup, the pain and hurt of
All is poured – until the last sad drops
Are drained, and only love is left.
And then the waiting in the garden –
A betrayal in the deepest terrifying
Darkness – the anguished bloody
Dying: and the laying in a tomb….

….until?


Good Friday 2011