Jesus in the Cathedral

Peterborough recently hosted the Methodist Collection of Modern Christian Art. I spent one morning as a guide and this is my reflection on the experience. 

 

They enter through timbers.

The abbot’s dark barricade that no longer

dissuades the casual visitor.

 

Welcomed by pipes who whisper

disembodied tones

reverberating off stones

that stand anonymously attentive

serving a higher purpose

that eyes cast to heaven

may regard the ceiling.

 

Still, the Jesus, the Christ crucified and risen

Watches over; his pluriform suspensions

unnoticed; eyes transfixed instead by medieval paving slabs.   

 

At the end of the day I am amazed

by those who gaze more on graves

than the subject who inhabited their ways.

 

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Love Letter

Written for Laura Butler and Richard Page on the day they married – sadly I forgot to take it with me when I conducted their service.

 

The butler turned the page and what was unveiled

was a love letter carefully written;

in the ink of the heart that flows forward and long,

narrating the journey of two into one.

The characters entwined in a lengthening line

with spaces marking their breaths,

transitions from friend to lover

then turns to this moment

where vows carefully spoken

bind both together as author

and if the butler should turn the page again

together they will write the story

each naked sheet covered newly adorned with words

the children of vows said today.

Cheers for the Voice that is missing

It’s so long since I uploaded any new poems I thought I’d do a few. This one is about a church member who died earlier this year and who was a season ticket holder at Peterborough United (The Posh). I wrote this in his memory.

Standing, the crowd,

cheering aloud

for a loyal supporter in blue

who for years got cold

through winters grew old

as he gazed from his pensioner’s throne

do him proud

come on

delicately thread the pass,

place a cross

and with a touch of class

reveal you are truly Posh.

his voice has fallen silent

and his family is gathered around

without him to stand and call,

scream

pass the bloody ball,

do him proud

come on

delicately thread the pass,

place a cross

and with a touch of class

reveal you are truly Posh.

Then they rise and cheer,

suddenly surprised

on a day when an impossible result provides

hope for the stuttering throng.

They have watched each week

the tumblers, the cheats,

the decisions of refs whose pronouncements are deplorable

they have doubted and believed

occasionally been deceived

by the brilliance they questioned possible.

do him proud

come on

delicately thread the pass,

place a cross

and with a touch of class

reveal you are truly Posh.

For a voice has been lost

fallen silent; the cost

of grief born from love

not for a team,

but a man, simple, his dream,

to watch one more game

in the company of family and friend.

do him proud

come on

delicately thread the pass,

place a cross

and with a touch of class

reveal you are truly Posh.