I Am Said I (Huruma)

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

"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

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

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)

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.

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

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

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 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

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

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

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

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

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

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