The shadow of death

Behind the house the sun dips slowly down. 

I sit and rest and gaze at the lengthening shade,

no chore or worry tugging at my sleeve,

and watch the garden’s brightness slowly fade. 

A vivid patch of green still gleams beside

the garden fence, but soon the shadow’s tide

will dress it in a sombre evening gown. 

Oh how I loved to play and bask and run

in parks and playgrounds in my younger days,

heedless of heat and thirst and reddening skin;

beneath the scorching, blinding noonday rays,

alive with youth’s indomitable might. 

At times, a while, I still bathe in the light

that freely pours from bounteous Brother Sun. 

My day draws on, but it is not yet done. 

The house awaits. She seems to say, ‘My friend,

in time, without regret, you’ll come on in. 

I’ll welcome you with love at your day’s end. 

You have no need to think or do – just be. 

I watch with you; I’m not your enemy.

You still have time for walking in the sun.’

Maundy Thursday: stripping the church

Candlesticks, chalice, paten all remind
us of the reverence we seek to show
our Paschal King. They are the first to go
this Maundy Night. It's time to leave behind
the starched white linen, gold brocade, and find
a bleaker, naked faith; to undergo
the three days' death that waken us to know
the paradox: to see we must grow blind.

Criss-crossing without words the servers walk,
take cloths and hangings out; we kneel, and pray;
the lights are dimmed; now Lent has done its work.
The chill night air strips clinging warmth away,
and sound and light are for another day –
tonight we walk into the silent dark.

65

The old scaffolding pole,

bridging apple and greengage trees,

five feet from the ground,

was a circus tight-rope, high above the ring,

with no safety net.

The nettle-strewn gap

between fence and garage wall,

eighteen itchy, stinging inches wide,

was a mountain cave, bandits' hideaway,

a secret lair.

The back garden,

bordered by the Montagues' and Farm Road,

ten by fifteen yards of tended lawn,

was the Oval, Edrich facing McKenzie

for the Ashes.

The house still stands

but the children have moved on,

four boys finding new paths and fields;

and ten grandchildren dream new dreams

across a shrinking world.

Whisk(e)y cake

Whisky cake, O Whisky cake!
O alcoholic, frisky cake!
Oh, had I known what lay in store,
I might have spurned you, risky cake. 

In Sainsbury’s store lay requisites:
Spices, flour and fruity bits,
A pretty tin to carry you,
With flowers and hearts and such-like glitz.

A Sunday afternoon of baking,
Rubbing, stirring, sieving, shaking,
Oven heated, cake tins greased,
Oh the joys of fruit-cake making.

Savouring the rich aroma,
Amateur – that’s a misnomer –
(What is it comes before a fall?)
Give myself a chef’s diploma!

Sifted sugar, butter, zest,
Orange juice, freshly pressed,
Lastly whisky – that’s the icing,
Made with nothing but the best.

Actually, some might disagree,
About the whisky, for you see,
Tullamore Dew is not a Scotch,
But Irish whiskey, with an ‘e’.

Now the cake is good to go:
Icing like a field of snow,
Smooth and pristine. O vain cook –
Foolish braggadacio!

So the overweaning fool
Tenderly drives the cake to school,
Treads the darkened corridors,
Trips and drops it: fate so cruel!

The horror! The horror! Dark heart so sore:
Thus the world ends, with no more
Than a bang from the tin, a whimper from me:
Out of the cake tin, onto the floor.

All is not lost! The fates relent;
Though the icing's ruined, and the lid is bent, 
The cake survives, the tin’s upright —
Put on hold the last lament. 

A lesson in humilty,
And the advisability
Of caution in dark corridors
To guarantee tranquility.

Maundy Thursday

He'd have had his feet washed sometime,
not with rich perfume or gushing tears,
but with water, by a hard-pressed servant,
slave almost, eyes cast down, and
shoulders sagging from a lifetime's toil.

And he'd have noticed. The servant
would have mattered, have counted to him.
And he'd have stored up in his heart
how our comfort comes at others' cost,
our humanity drains as we deny the human.

That night of all nights, in the upper room,
stripped of all finery he washed our feet,
became the untermensch, beneath notice.
Peter noticed, and couldn't bear it. A kingdom
without kings, a commonwealth of servants.

Have we kept the kingdom free of slaves,
learned the hard lesson he taught to Peter,
been servants of all, and sought the lowest place?
Remember the dusty feet that stumbled and fell
carrying the heavy cross to Calvary.

Biggles in Stoke Park - February 2011

wide green spaces suit
a brown and white spaniel on
a grey winter's day

Limerick Haiku - 17.10.2010

flecked gold reflected
on the Shannon – mellow guests
drifting on a tide of wine