in a voice that told me this was
your moment, and I wondered who
would rub yours to ease away their chill.
But the way those fingers touched without
taking, and the restraint of his bearded lips
made me turn aside with something about
reflexology and Chinese concubines.
LIVING SON
O zu ihr zuerst. Wie waren sie da
aussprechlich in Heilung...(Rilke: Das Marienleben)
No mirage shuddering in sunlit dust:
it was her son pale as unearthed root,
slow, strong pace so like his measured words,
wide gaze that stirred love and hate.
Fine-sculpted man broken and nailed
till he lost himself in a wild cry
and she left him embalmed and deftly bound.
The old rebuke came back: His Father’s business
and didn’t she realise? Yet light in foot and heart
she took his outstretched hand while his other eased
her shoulders of their tight-held grief. No words
for what had passed. So they begin again,
two trees that stir and sway to windless currents,
his work and hers now for ever one.
NOTE
Epigraph:
‘ O to her he first (came). Then and there how inexpressibly they were healed...’
PSALM
Forgive me, Lord, for not rejoicing
in her regard,
for waking to curse a wakefulness
that wracks me with distrust.
I have not asked for grace
to fulfil your promise,
I have not asked you to bless
the moments and makings
of our regard.
I have not freed my heart
to soar at your summons.
I have stopped my ears against
the songs she makes me sing.
*
You have made me a place of rest to draw
on her regard.
And I have not delighted
in your loving kindness.
You have come brightening from the south
over a drenched land as we walked
in our regard.
And I have not taken
your sign to heart.
You have planted a seed and I have turned away
and left its tender shoots to wither
without regard.
A LIGHTER TOUCH
1. ASCENT
We tread higher into forest,
the path roughly terraced
by root and rock. Me first.
I turn and see you lit-up
in a glimmering gap,
your delight at each slow step
as if there’s no other place
where earth’s entire grace
could so enliven your face.
2. EMBROIDERY
I look out at midsummer borders
while tenderly a Purcell Almand’s plucked
from harpsichord’s fine-tuned wires,
elusive, fluid syncopations
that tint all you’ve nurtured and planted.
It’s the rhythm of your fingers coaxing
into colour from green-winged fragments
wayward petunias, stocks, marigolds,
dahlias with pert looks and tuberous toes.
Is it you, Purcell, or the player
who brushes in layer by layer
this quavering melange,
pink-white, puce-yellow, mauve-orange?
3. ILLUMINATION
Does grubbing up weeds in August mist
purge me or do I fight some dogged force
that has to be admired and cursed?
What matter when your greeting
pitches gently into the damp air
and your smile, part question part blessing
strokes my face like a shaft of warm light?
It’s the Feast of the Virgin’s Assumption
and I face Mass to be beside you.
The sermon asks if we find Mary’s joy
shining through the fogs of dogma,
for me no more or less your radiance
scouring a waste of potholes and minefields
I expect to fill and still for all eternity.
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