A mass of chrism and the other oils
In little bottles, decanted at speed by vergers
While the diocese receives Christ at the bishop’s hand
And promises again to do his work.
And then they scatter, each with a year’s supply
Of confirmations, death-bed anointings,
Makings of new Christians,
Comfortings of chemotherapy endurers,
Healings of toxic memories.
Here is the risen Christ, in each encounter
With the holy oils, the kindly touch,
The hope unconquered.
tRuth 2019
Like sea-mist condensing from nowhere
The quiet deepens through the week
As the streets empty. When the blackbird speaks
He wakes an echo in the April evening
That falls as fountains from the air
Back into stillness. So we enter
The great silence, as an otter cleaving
Still water cleanly, and we wait. The centre
Of all things, the Christ mystery, we prepare
Our spacious silence for receiving.
Together we enter his eclipse; a bleak
And seeping sadness chills us into prayer
Like those who loiter in a graveyard early, grieving
Before sunrise. Here we wait, this week.
tRuth 2019
Today Jesus rides in triumph
through a rain of flowers
to his kingdom, on Brother Ass,
humble and holy, simple and true.
Every day he rides still into his own
on Brother Ass, Brother Body,
the patient, grumbling root
of every spiritual flowering.
Who can find Jesus without Brother Ass to help her?
Who can be real whose Brother Ass has strayed?
Brother, you deserve fine flowers of cherry,
snowdrifts of apple-blossom, to welcome
this Easter king in his holiness.
I like thistles, mumbles Brother Ass,
Yum-yum, thank you. Can you see
my rider now? Yum-yum, thank you.
tRuth 2019
St Francis used to refer to his body as Brother Ass. Towards the end of his life he asked pardon of Brother Ass for having behaved so harshly towards it by his overzealous asceticism.
poem prayer silence 