The writings of Revd Tim Buckley

A heavy greyness hang across the wolds,
Dissolving form and substance on the near
Horizon, and in its cold, uncertain light,
Even autumn’s hues are drab and drear.

The weary year is turning once again.
Forgotten is the August drought – save
By the oak and ash who in the searing heat
Discarded bough and branch, their scars engraved

Upon the trunks that glisten in the mist –
And fierce September storms are really just
A memory now, as not a breeze disturbs
The stealthy, slow advance of creeping dusk

That wreathes around the hedges of the heart.
It’s time to build a house against the night
Before the clocks fall back and we are plunged
Into along, deep gloom where faith, not sight

Will lead us through the winter of our soul
Remembered warmth of spring our hope, our goal.

Rutland, October 2025

Social media is distorting our view of the world…

Emerging from the fog of dreams I first
Began to check the news, to see what signs
Of God might perhaps be found amid
So many claims and counterclaims online

And then, unthinking, went down rabbit holes
That seemed to educate and entertain…
I could have lost myself ago had not
The grey autumnal light begun to claim

My darkened room. And so I chose to lay
Aside this mirror of my blighted soul
To look beyond my own protective walls
Outside to find the good and true and whole –

Four blue tits flitting swiftly through the bush
Beneath my bedroom window; raucous crows
Disputing with an angry magpie; gangs
Of pigeons flocking where the sparrows throw

Discarded seeds; while in the scudding clouds
A hint of rainbow even could be seen.
And as I made my breakfast so I thought
Of those imprisoned by their tinted screens

Who will this day send vitriolic tweets
Or paint graffiti on their neighbour’s wall
And demonise the tribes of left and right
But little think one God is judge of all.

On Trendlebere Down we came across
The stonechat’s natural habitat – thick tracts
Of bracken stretching out beyond the wide
Horizon, broken only by the tracks

Of human interlopers – and bent, gnarled clumps
Of golden gorse, fringed by the flowering ling
Where, resplendent in his summer dress,
The cock begins – not exactly to sing

But make the sound of granite pebbles rubbed
Together – a gentle echo of how the moor
Was formed, when in God’s hands the elements
Combined, and why this land stirs up such awe.

Not directly connected to this poem,
but a reminder of the retreat house where I was staying

The sultry, sun-baked station hums with haste
And hurry – excited schoolkids taking flight
For they’ve misread the live departure boards;
Two gentleman in top hat and tails – despite

The heat – walking with affected gait;
Bright young things taking selfies for their mates,
Their fascinators flapping in the breeze;
A used car dealer with his trader plates:

Even a grey, tall friar, dressed in white,
Who tries – and fails – to keep a cool restraint
As in the melee one converging thong
Swoops down the platform to the coming train.

I pick my burden up again. Last night
While trudging through a slurried field I heard
A trinity of kite just overhead
Who called like seraphim, and then observed

How in the sun’s declining light an old
Gnarled oak was set ablaze but did not burn.
Now as I jostle for my seat, my heart
Already yearns – I know I must return.

The dusk has just begun to creep along
The dull suburban street, the grimy dust
And fumes still warm upon the evening breeze,
But though so early, yet our hero must

Awake, appease somehow his appetite.
But where to go? Once number one had lawns
Which promised rich rewards – now the quest
To fatten up before the harsh new dawn

Is mocked by plastic turf and gurning gnomes
And so he scurries on past number three,
A tarmac waste where SUVs are parked
With no regard for nature’s destiny,

Arriving then at number five, where rows
Of leeks and beans, all regimented, straight,
Suggest perhaps a feast. Yet first he sniffs
The air; the bitter tang of glyphosate

Explains the cleanness of these pristine leaves;
Thus hunger drives him on – but not next door,
Where hungry pugs are prone to chase and maul,
And strangers come to smoke and score.

So number nine – a memory draws him here
Of catfood scattered by a clear, fresh pond
And chance encounters with his fellow kind,
But to his hopeful grunts no-one responds,

Not any more. And though he feeds and feeds
On leatherjackets in the long rough grass
And newts beneath the stagnant algal bloom,
The thought persists; very soon his days shall pass.

I thought myself another village girl
Who, when given Joseph as my spouse,
Had such a simple plan – to please my man,
To raise our kids and build a blessèd house.

It would have been a calmer life at least,
And one I’ve often dreamt about. And yet
The Lord intervened, gave me the task
Of bearing Immanuel. Do I regret

This choice of His? Ask me another day.
When Simeon said a sword would pierce my soul
I heard the voice of grief but did not grasp
The payment of my love’s most bitter toll.

But now as every hammer blow tears through
The flesh of my dear Son, I feel the nails
Press down deep inside and were not John
Upholding me, I think my faith would fail.

“Blessèd are you among women!” they said
And I exulted at the Lord’s rich grace.
Yet how can I recite salvation’s song
When God the Father turns away His face?

20 Apr 25