SOME COSTLY TREASURE

Darkness slowly engulfs the square.
Night falls amidst a silent shift in
Who walks tall among the city’s streets
And alleyways: now from the shadows come
The forgotten ones, the old, the young,
The babes in arms – whose only home
Is here. For this is Rio, more than any
Other city, where poor and rich are
Neighbours close, but strangers. Such
Inequality of opportunity.

Across the square, ornate in neo-Gothic
Splendour, a mighty “holy” edifice awaits
A groom and bride: flowers in their beauty
And their thousands, adorn the steps and
Doors and aisle; black-suited ushers –
Bouncers for the night – stand by to open
Doors of limousines, but close the wrought-iron
Gates to any but the most chic wedding guests:
Here love is blind indeed. “To have and hold”
For ever in a false security.

Another scene, just yards away. Beneath the
Soft glow of the amber lamp illuminating some
Civic yester-worthy, a simple table holds a cup
And plate. Bread is broken, wine outpoured
Among the city’s poor to whom it best belongs.
And sat around arrayed in rags of beauty and
Of pain come children, women, men, by all
The world forgotten, save by God. So here the
Food of love, the wine of dignity restored is
Offered and received with joy. But then

While priestly hands are held aloft, and all
Is offered, even in this place, according to the
Canon, I spot a woman in the crowd bearing
Her gift: body lotion, cheap and pungent,
Passed from hand to hand – her offering to
Tend the aching flesh of dusty streets. Joyfully
It anoints first arms, then legs, then breasts -
And healing and Shalom are there, an
Alabaster box for all to share. And God, whose
Tears embrace the streets with love, now
Weeps with unambiguous delight.


On observing, and sharing in , a Street Mass
In down-town Rio de Janiero, October 2011

ADVENTURE'S RESTING PLACE

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