Small

I want to feel small against the dark night sky,
who shrouds our eyes from seeing far away,
Against frothing, raging oceans I want to cry,
When our lives are sheltered safe in calmest bay.

Up on fern filled heathered fells,
Where no signposts demand our steps,
Freedom lives to tell its story,
With rain soaked words and winded gale.

Against dusks of pink summer and skree sided
mountain, Tryfan stands bare. Weathered by time;
She overshadows with glad tidings of mortality,
Which smoothed pixels can never resolve.

Nature’s threatre bids us to mystic silence,
Where life is not haunted by death and we rest,
Not safe. With no smoothed council pavements,
Nor pounding clocks stealing our time.

By these beanstalks Jack ascends,
To heights of heaven and stature of giant,
Until even kneeling, our towers overtake
That small, broken God on oaken tree.

I want to feel small before that hill,
Which housed my Lord and finds him still,
Arms outstretched by love’s final call,
To us the giants walking proud and tall.

Pottery and Sinners

It was dark. She slipped from shadow to shadow, from house to house, always getting closer to her destination. Normally, she skulked, fearful of prying eyes and ears, and hushed disapproving tones. But tonight, her steps were light as they had not been since she was a little girl, flying down hills after her brother. Those days had long since faded into another life. Skipping had turned to plodding.

She paused as she reached to the main street, pausing slightly as her memory whirred to the left and to the right. Which way, had he said? If only she was able to ask someone. But this was not her patch. People here didn’t speak to people like her. Men, who in her experience were blind and mute at the best of times, hustled by seemingly oblivious. But she knew they noticed - their backs stiffened and steps quickened. No-one in their right mind would want to be seen with her. Too much was at stake - so much that not even a trip to Jerusalem could solve. She knew even her breathless presence could smear reputations, as wine soaks wool. But it was the faces of the women - some tried to dress pity up with banal words of meeting and greeting. Other hollow eyes followed her up and down, boring into her past until she saw her own shame reflected. She avoided women.

Her past was filthy. And dirt stands out in a crowd. At first, she knew how to hide so no-one would notice. But with every work’s night, the whispers grew louder and her hiding places grew smaller. Until there was no where to run. She had no excuses, no defences. In the beginning, she lived in elaborate justifications. She played hide and seek with the truth until things got turned upside down and inside out and she no longer felt the aching after burn of shame’s draught. Instead she felt a steady numbness spreading inside. Like that peculiar cold numb when you’ve sat on your hands for too long, things looked the same but they felt distant. It was if she had taken all those looks and glances, those fists of fury and had slowly by slowly built a thorny cocoon. Briers were added day by day until she was enclosed, fenced in. She couldn’t move anywhere else this crown of thorns caught. So there she lived hemmed in but anesthetized. Tears had long since dried and nothing remained but salt preserving her for the vultures.

The dusk breeze caught her hair and, on a hunch, she went left. Her heart leaped as she saw the hill which told her she was heading in the right direction. It was a long slow drag up this hill which took you almost to the edge of the city walls. From the earthen jar her arms cradled, a sweet smell trailed, mingling with the salt of Dead Sea air. Her best dress fluttered in time with her long dark hair. She was getting close.

As she rounded the corner at the top of the hill, she paused and looked back. Below her lantern lights flickered, puncturing the growing night. She thought of how far she had come since dawn. But this was not like other journey’s she had made - no-one was expecting her, she wasn’t even sure she would be welcome. At that moment, her confidence deserted her. What if he wasn’t interested? What if he was just like everyone else? But she had come so far, for so long just to come to this point. For the longest moment, fear and desperation fought for her - fear bade her back down the hill, desperation pointed to the top the hill and the house she could just about make out.

Eventually, her feet moved. Forward. Abandon took her, and she raced up to the house where she knew he was. As she approached she found a back alley away from the front entrance. She felt her way along the smooth white walls until she reached the doorway. Steeling herself one last time, she crept in.

Nobody was around, but she heard muttered voices. She knew she had to carry on else what courage she had would fail her. Rushing, she followed the voices until she finally saw, through a curtain, him. He was sitting with his back to her, facing the other men. It looked as though dinner was over and he was teaching them as the others sat silent. Every eye was on him.

She inched closer to the curtains, and slowly parted them ever so slightly with her hand. This was it, this was the moment. There was no polite way of doing this, she knew in a few seconds all hell would break loose. She quickly parted the curtain and entered the room. But as she did, her foot caught in the loose curtain. She felt herself falling and the alabaster jar she carried slipping from her hands. Just before she fell, he turned round and looked right into her eyes. His eyes were not like the women’s. His eyes looked and knew and welcomed. The jar had smashed the perfume all over his feet. She knew she would always be remembered as the sinner who broke in and smashed pottery over the rabbi’s feet. She started weeping.

Just let me be. That person who awaits with joy those things that patter and still delight. Who doesn’t need the bright light but will skip in damp drizzle. With soap in hand and and no need of face. That one who jumps to my ancestors’ drum without fear of past’s present or future’s veil. Who doesn’t heed to aching limbs but runs with torch burning behind him and whitest trainers flickering. Whose cowboy hat lilts to summers’ eve after hoes are downed and red earth sleeps. Until tomorrow all is well between us, all sweat will cease and we eat. together. and laugh. god bless you, my friend who asks nothing but to meet again tomorrow. they only know but here between us now, we fall into green gardens to wait for him who walks among all our days. with fluttering grace.

Decisions, Decisions

Whether to get the blackened ceramic (looks nice but will it clean properly?) or the stainless steel (bit more expensive but retains a healthy lustre). Whether we have broccoli and apple (strangely alluring combination for the lovers of green or a culinary disaster waiting to simmer) or leftover christmas vol au vonts (which mushrooms play a filling part)? When would be best to have the flower festival - in lusty summer or drawing autumn? And most vexed of all - Messiah or Olivet to Calvary (i'm trying to get a handle on all this)? Whether to announce names with flowers or write? To cut trees from month to month or lop it off in one go?

Around oaken tables, they met. Seriously. Those elected ones of the copsewood realm. Each one held a secret power in their gaze. One had the power of the tongue to talk beyond sense even when the hour drew late and the carrot cake was ate. Another held detailed plans of bricks and mortar in his head and could unleash tides of information until time itself seemed to wait for him. Another was for numbers. A whizz on sheets which held destiny in our hands - inventory was the gift you see. From cloths and dusters to lawns and gardeners, nothing escaped the clutches of number's nets. Our leader sat ahead of table. From he exudes kind thoughs and soft words to soothe the knighted powers. His guard never does drop even when clock chimes and chimes. And then there was me, a new knight of this oblong table. Wet behind the ears and still finding his power. It certainly is not with words or numbers or architects. At the moment it is the gift of a silenced scream 'Really, is this it?' But give it some few months, and no doubt some new skill will come to me. Maybe it will be catering or, whisper it quietly, flower arranging?