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Refuge

Page 5

by Michael Tolkien


  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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