Feet

They were last
To leave the womb
Lingering in the safety there

Softly kicking
The fretful air

They took their time
To stand and bear
The burden of

A life

The ever increasing
Heaviness of body

Dressed in fresh
Socks on Sundays
Smoothed into comfort
By the loving stroke
Of a Mother’s hand

And being young
They were swift
And strong
And unconcerned

Running bare
On the hot concrete
Of urban summers

Delighting in the
Tickle-fresh feel
Of the country grass

And many a late night dance

In their ageing
They are tender
Once again

Tired and sore
From wear and tare

Squeezed in the too-tight
Shoes of every fashion

Knotted and gnarled
And twisted

Taking pleasure now
In the bathing of warm water

Resting on the footstool
Of a day and journey’s end

The Cup

"Each morning we must hold out the chalice of our being to receive, to carry, and give back. It must be held out empty - for the past must only be reflected in its polish, its shape, its capacity." 

(Dag Hammarskjöld)

Can you drink

The cup?  He asked

How simply sincere

The yes of youth

And sure the hands

That take the cup

Holding it to my lips

Mouth to mouth

Communion adoration

Drinking of its sacrificed

Service

Thinking nothing of the cost

In the greatness of my loving

It takes time

To become what we drink

And becoming takes its toll

Uncertain feet stumble

Weakening hands tremble

The cup falls

Spilling out emptied

And I am nothing

To myself but a bare

Naked trusting

That I AM the cup

Held in His hands

A vessel fit for lofty use

Dedicated to the Master

Ready for every good

The Wind

This is the wind

To be in bed with

Snug beneath

The piles of eiderdown

Memories

Times of innocent

Music

Walking lightly

On the earth

This is the wind

Rushing down

The ancient chimney

Like Pentecost

Dancing on the fire

Of lively flame

Unruly smoke

Reminding us to be

More playful

TORMENTA

It feels like a scene 
From a movie

Drinking tea
From china cups
Among the exotic
In a faded place

The air hot and heavy
The smell of sulphur
Everywhere

A terrible tormenta
Spanish for storm
Is raging

Unleashing hail

The blackest sky
Apocalyptic

Uprooting ancient
Trees blowing the roof
Off a shanty church

What an authentic
Pentecost might do

With scant regard
For our attachments

The sacred icons
By which we are
Connected to the Divine

Snatched from our grasp
So that we have nothing
To hold

Us back from surrender
To that which we cannot
Control

(San Antonio De Areco,Argentina)

I CAN'T IMAGINE (1985)

She took her baby 

from a silent labour
while I searched in vain
for a doctor whose nurse was doing
her hair again, disinterested.

She held her baby,
finding reason in the warmth
her body gave him
to deny, defy death,
then quiet came the tears
in humble abandon
to the act of God.

I try to imagine
this Tanzanian woman
deemed servile bearer
of water, wood and child
for a drunk man at noon

so soon to talk
politics and lesser
vulgarities

I try to imagine
this soul of a nation
unspoken, out of place.

I try to imagine
but I'm white, a man
too far to understand.

NOSTOS

It doesn’t last long

Silence in a church

Refuge for the word weary

Briefest of brief

Moment

Loud whispered aspirations

Louder vocal prayers

Local news passed on

Between statues

She pauses in front

Of me

Thinking she knows

Me

Smiling dementia

She is a book

Without chapters

Unbroken flow

Of words

Five hundred pages

Long

A faded grandeur

Battered sparkling

Red shoes in hand

Makeup-smeared

I hold her hand

Breaking the silence

Touching God

She leads me barefoot

In the Pavilion of Mercy

To a sort of homecoming

THE WOUND OF LOVE

She leans forward
Into me

To pounce upon
My faith in God

And expose it
As a fantasy

In which I hide
For comfort

A  way of avoidance
The need of reassurance
But I assure her

He has long since
Ceased to comfort
Or crutch me

More a dagger now
Embedded in my breast

A wound in me that bleeds
A blessing

The wound of love

IN SEARCH OF A WORD

I went out in search of a Word 
To a place where no speech
No voice is heard

Only the sound of birds in the trees
Wind in the pines
A breeze brushing the clear 
Surface of a pond. 

And high on a hill above it all
Unsheltered in the bitter wind 
I could see and think 
For miles and years....

BLOOD OF A STRANGER (An Anointing)

Blood of a stranger

On my sleeve

Seeping

On the open road

The ebbed away life

Anointed brow

Turned pale

Fainting is not an option

The bitter air no issue

How peaceful

He becomes

Almost beautiful

In the wind

Sirening around

The rest of us

The hurricane

That is yet to come

Crashing down

His widow in the Parlour

Holds her soon to-be-born

Child

Sweet expectancy turned

Sour

I want words

I want to say that

He was accompanied

And not alone

All I have is tears

Flowing

Down my cheeks

And it is she

Who consoles

The consoler

Touching my face

So kindly

Self-possessed

The dug-deep dignity

Rising up in tragedy

To the more

That is in all of us

When we least expect

COUNTRY PRIEST

He was trendy once
Star of the Holy Show

Great with the youth
And kind to the old

Being all things to all

God carved him
Into the rock
Of this place

And in his ageing now
He has the leathered
Face of a mountain

Bachelor

Ironing his own shirts
Or not

The housekeeper's day
Being over

The crumpled frayed
Edges of him more visible

Irrelevant to the worldly
Wise

But the old love remains
Waiting in the window
Of his eyes

A blessing for the vital
Moments

When all else has failed

SAMARITAN

In an old poky
terraced house

I lay myself down
on no-body's bed

Quietly
Apprehensive

One ear open
for the big black phone
that will clang

In deepest desolate dark

Heart pounding
To the voice

That oozes forth
from hell
at the other end

I hate phones
ringing

I hate the click
of another

Hanging up
Too soon

Never ever knowing
if I prevented
or assisted

Suicide

The Relief

Right now

After fifty years

I recognize the relief

Of celibacy

They are old

With years of intimacy

Shared

He is frail and needs

To sit on his suitcase

In the queue

He might be Jesus

Taken lifeless from the Cross

And she the mother

Of all sorrows

The faces proclaim it

And beg the whole airport

To take note that there is

No sorrow to compare

No ministry more urgent

Dragging his jacket

Halfway down his arms

She rubs cold hands inside

The hot neck of his shirt

Cupping his weary face

In her palms and he remains

Motionless a victim

It is their chosen mode

Within the limits of choice

I would rather collapse

Alone in a heap and expire

Brendan

Two doors removed

Measure of our distance

The intimacy between us

Not vital and not without

Importance

I sit beside the grief

Of your leave-taking

Short of words

Hoping still that presence

Has some meaning

Like the smiling lips

Of your welcome

The fullness of your greeting

As you strode across the Green

The unexpected hug

Of our last meeting

Things will never

Be the same again

And the seagulls know it

Squawking in the squall

That tosses them around

The heavy-laden sky

All poise useless

When the hailstones

Tumble down upon

The mourners at your grave

Brief

I love

Brief acts

Of intimacy

The back of your index

Finger feeling

My forehead and neck

For fever

Squeezing lime

Into hot whiskey

When with cold

I shiver

Your hand holding

My elbow to guide

Me to the other side

Of a busy street

Momentary touches

That do not cling

Enough to ensure

That I am

Still touchable

Still loveable

Before The Time Of Rest

Earth catches sunlight

Air the colour of earth

Ochre dusk

Desert meeting ocean

A time of Mercy

A quenching

And a going Home

The Bed of Consolation

Awaits day’s end

And end of days

But still there is

A Journey

Another hill and valley

Another sky and sea

Another road

To be traversed

Before the Night of Sleep

There is an Evening of Reflection

Before laying down

My tried and tested Body

Wearied Mind

My Restless Soul

Must wait with memory

As companion

And be assessed by Love

Before the Time of Rest