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.