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

A VIEW MORE DISTANT

Tom, I cannot say
I knew you well.

I saw you from a distance,
Heard your name,
Watched, as in a choir
That loved you well
You measured out your harmonies
From a more distant place:

I heard you too,
Hidden at your console,
Talking to us through
Your fingers and your toes,
But not your eyes, which resonated
With some distant, deeper place.

I knew you slightly, Tom,
As in your struggles with an
Ailing body that could no more
Contain you, your parents
In their anguish and their love
Called us to holy supplication.

There is no answer to a prayer
That seeks a simple resolution.
The music of this symphony
Is darker, more profound: it is
The energy of love in counterpoint.
Now yours to play, for

Tom, within the mystery of God
You are known well.



In memory of Tom Wickens,
Woodham Parish
May 2010