Una hora menos

Let thy servant depart     Let thy servant depart this world  If not in peace at least in penitence Because my eyes have seen the hell That man has made of heaven.  This is not what you had foreseen  Thirteen billion years ago Before the world was formed Before the fishes swam in early seas.  We have not learned, Jew nor Gentile To be gentle with the gift you gave  And live our lives within our means To value sense above excess.  We have spurned salvation We have spent with stunning greed Our eyes are lowered to the sewers Running down the streets and alleys.  Your prophets warned us in times gone by To turn to Justice and to simplicity But now the stakes are higher As we destroy our fragile world.  Your prophet asked for ten just men But the challenge is far higher  We now need eight billion more or less To take a path out of our burning building.  The poor now press their noses Against the windows of big mansions While all th...

  Sea forecast From Malin to Fair Head the radio fizzed The storm was approaching from Viking  Ships in the Forties and in the Forth Were dealing with waves that came from the north  No shelter in Tyne, or even in Humber No fishing in Thames or as far south as Dover Ferries were flailing In the Bay of Biscay.  The Gale running fast,  Past Fastnet and Shannon  Up the west coast  From Rockall to Malin God spare the poor sailors  Who sail for a living Heaven help the fishermen Risking lives and their vessels So that we folk in bed Can roll up the blankets Can listen in safety Then fall back in slumber.  Inspired by SR

  The little thrush is singing in the tree   The little thrush is singing in the tree  In the hedgerow right behind me He clearly sings above the rest Proclaiming proudly from his nest That Spring’s arrived and so it’s time For nature to burst open once again.  The sun is dancing on the apple trees Whose buds are growing into blossom  The cheeky robin sits on my table  And steals a crumb before I’m able  To deflect him or address him Off he flies beneath our gable.  This is heaven where I’ve come to Appreciate the exquisite delight  Of growing grass beneath my feet And watching daisies peek their heads.  Above the green grass that grows lush In gentle Carne beside the sea.  To travel the world only to return  Whence it started many a year And many a dance ago With your partner across the floor And sway to a tune Learnt long before.  First week of lockdown in isolation in Carne. March 2020. 

  A chapel  empty A chapel  empty on a Tuesday morning Save for a lady in her weary eighties Bent over by her age and piety A sturdy walking stick beside her.  A day of Spring in old Blackrock Outside normal life is thrumming  Ignoring sacred space and quiet Within the holy walls with limpid light.  The sunlight filtered by stained glass Creeps in and blesses golden stone Of pastel creams and browns  That lead our eyes up to the knave.  Above the altar hangs a massive cross And lower down a cast of saints From far and wide and of course Our Lady Holding in her arms a blessed baby.  A quiet time for a Quaker Who loves the magic of a church Mindful that this cannot last The last survivor of a desert island.  The pulpit stands, a testament  To different times and ages But special all the same  It was their words that formed us.  The tabernacle glistens Adorned with Alpha and Omega Some things will forever stay Grateful for a ...

  Holy Thursday blues I travel back fifty years to an oratory In severe Castile of wide horizons Carried back by Holy Thursday chant That rises into bluish Spanish skies.  A plaintiff Easter chant that bears The incensed echoes of one thousand years Sung by young men in white surplices Calling on the God of David and of Solomon.  Salamanca was living off its history It’s proud tradition quickly changing As girls in jeans replace the novices In black birettas and flowing cassocks.  Franco lies dying somewhere in Madrid  Catching his last breath while all around Many catch their first and a country  Begins to waken from its slumbers.   Back in the seminary the young men Proceed around the austere block Pray Easter stations of the cross In nineteen seventy five.  The chant of centuries rises high Above the cypresses in the suburbs Ignored by men in noisy bars Who worship at the altar  Of the football team nearby.