Light drizzle falls upon the yellow grass And settles on the brittle withered leaf Like tears of grief upon a corpse – the cause Of death unheeded warnings, disbelief,
As if the scientist’s a raving fool And we can act as gods to burn, pollute And drill at will. Soon the precious pall Of slate-grey cloud will burn away and soot
From far-off fires disperse across the earth. I contemplate Saint Peter’s ancient words About the conflagration of the world And wonder if his warning will be heard. 30 Jul 26
A picture from Cirencester where the conference was held:
It grows deep underground, yet is not blind, That seeking, searching for one constant Source Which feeds and nurtures strong, resilient roots Withstanding whatever windswept force,
Beyond our own enduring, blows our way. And it does not grow alone. With fragile threads It makes connections through some unseen web And forms one body with a single Head.
Yet in these strange tumultuous times where gods Are made and crafted by our own design, I am reminded of some prophet’s tale About a verdant but rebellious vine
And wonder how our fragile threads will stretch Or if the fruit will set our teeth on edge.
It’s easy to romanticise the past And idolise some English idyll where We clean forget the alleys full of filth Or country hovels, flea-infested, bare
Or hungry months in which our fathers starved And sickness stalked the crowded street. And yet To sweep away all that the years have left Untouched is also really to forget –
We need these quiet, secluded spots Which tell in ancient stone and weathered oak, Not of some sweet sanitised golden age But of the rise and fall of moneyed folk,
Who prospered briefly, built up title, rank And power then through the centuries declined To leave behind this crumbling, dark outline Which stands today to educate, remind.
And thus we stand beneath the great hall’s beams Still slightly charred by a long-extinguished blaze And watch the iridescent swallows flit Through window-frames which once held precious glaze,
But as we marvel at their speed, their poise, Their grace we cannot help reflect how one day The autumn breeze will bear them all away And just this time-worn ruin will remain.
She looks and yet no longer sees – her eyes Which sparked upon her husband’s touch (or flashed With anger when he came home drunk) now sit As muddy, lifeless pools which do not catch
The sunshine steaming through the frosted pane Or stir upon the gentle springtime breeze, And though they used to shimmer moistly at My words, they gaze unfixed in senseless ease.
Yet, when I start to play her favourite hymn, For one brief holy moment breaks forth light And something’s seen beyond mere human sight. 4 May 26
The largo’s final chord has softly died Away and now we wait the thrilling change To glorious major key when every theme Of desolation, loss and grief, explained
In starkly haunting counterpoint, at last Find full and total resolution. Yet In this brief space such poignant melodies Still echo deep and we must not forget
When standing to applaud our Maestro’s work How hope is forged so often through despair Or how so many only know those slow, Dark notes that yield no consolation, where
The hints of coming joy cannot be heard And heavy silence often is preferred.
The darkening pip told us that the crop Was ripe and so against the dwindling day We gathered up the fallen, the bruised, the Misshapen, and chopped and peeled and cut away
Where worm and moth had wound their manky trail, Before, with every sinew stretched, we pressed, And crushed and pulped, until the channel ran Full of the precious juice whose earthy taste
We sealed and captured in our demijohns, Then waited, while the unselected browned Upon the sodden earth, as winter’s rain Set in and beat incessantly the ground,
Reducing us to watchers of this slow Decay. But now the saddening months have passed – Outside, the brambles, nettle, elder push Through the fermented remains of those outcast
While gladdened by the lengthening light, we look To Easter and the breaking of the seal, And wonder what delight will be revealed.
The magpies have convened a parliament And no-one’s keeping order. Item one, The crows: (loud jeers and cackles at this point) – This seasons’ skirmishes have just begun,
Great vigilance required at ALL TIMES, They are and always shall be mortal foes, They eat our kids and steal our food; no peace Can be agreed, whatever they propose.
Next item, nests: We all want better pads But nicking sticks (or nestmates)’s not allowed. Shiny objects on the other hand … (Uproar erupts among the squabbling crowd.)
Third item, twitchers: Mostly harmless, they’re Not interested in you, some foreign bird Is all they want to see. So distract them Do something odd (yes, Derek, that’s not hard
for you.) Fourth item, the long-range forecast, warm And warmer still, despite the driving rain. Do what it takes to feed your starving brood, Be smart, be wise, not pigeon/human-brained.
(Uneasy laughter ripples gently through The jostling throng until – what’s that? A jay! And thus the moot concludes with raucous squawks While Derek goes his own peculiar way.)
Once, January lay cloaked beneath a clean Crisp sheet of driven snow or shivered when Some Arctic blast shrivelled precocious shoots Of far-off spring and blackened every stem,
And we would slide across a glassy sea Extending over every pavement, track And driveway til a pallid, slanting sun Would briefly, weakly thaw but never crack
The mirrored surface, hard unyielding still For our frostbound journey home to safe, warm rest. But now the apple tree already stands In bud; great tits in its hollows nest
And frisky squirrels bounce from bough to bough. The tepid air is warming year on year And though he should be sleeping through to March, The fat old hedgehog starts to scratch and stir.
Genteleschi ‘s picture Flight into Egypt 1620 shows an utterly exhausted Joseph.
She told me of the angel’s visit, just Before she left; but what she rightly meant, I could not say – the Holy Spirit, a son Who would be mighty, great, of royal descent –
Then with a knowing smile she went. I tried, I tried so hard, to plane away my doubt Which stuck like splinters in my inmost parts, Yet still the question came; was she devout,
Deceitful, or deluded? I could not tell And though I prayed, I feared whatever word The Lord might say to me, as if my plans Might contradict His will, or I’d misheard
Somehow His still, small voice. And so I’d rise Each day and tell my friends we’d soon be wed, Yet fretting inly at my choice. But now Mary has returned. And what she said
I scarce can credit. That the child’s not mine, I have no doubt. That the child is God’s – can that be true? What if Mary’s right? No, this fantastic tale sits at odds
With God’s grace, and I must let her go, But not disgrace her – maybe she’s divined Some truth I cannot see. Tomorrow, then, I will – well, what exactly? My troubled mind
Is wrestling through this long and horrid night, My splintered plans still sticking in my soul. Yet like my father Jacob I hold out For El-Shaddai to bless me, make me whole.
And just before the glimmer of the day I hear a certain voice, “Don’t be afraid.” Then suddenly I understand. In Him The saving power of God will be displayed
And I must own Him as my child, provide For Him and name Him Jesus – a special role Indeed, yet one I see is fraught with risk – A jealous king who will not yield control
Religious leaders proud of such good works, Romans prone to crush any who rebel – Will they feel threatened by this wondrous news Or worship God as their Emmanuel?
He alone knows the answer. I must trust And with the breaking of the clear new dawn Take Mary home as my betrothed, to wait With her until this precious child is born.
It was a great privilege to introduce my latest novel at the PPL recently, as I talked about story telling and read extracts from my writings. I hope you enjoy it!
The writings of Revd Tim Buckley 