One of those Church Saints died this week, This is for her.
She didn’t look like you’d expect
and she did not perform miracles to order
but in her company disorder
into a kind companion.
Her voice was more the still small sound of heaven
she did not shatter
but gently bathed her listener with the kindest of words.
She will not be recalled by the writers’ of history
she is the saint who sat and watched
over a beloved community for God.
Not as mother superior but as a superior mother,
who does not pass unregarded.
Her seat sits empty and yet I look up and see her watching over,
praying for sister and brother.
For a long time now I have struggled to write poetry. A while ago I expressed this, with some irony, in a poem! I publish it tonight only because I have written again tonight in memory of a church member who died this week.
I’m looking for words
but they have slipped inside the sofa,
hiding beside the remote
my hand touches one before the others.
the words remain abandoned
in the accumulated debris until they are
dragged neglected into the woven dust and fir
I have a dyson.
Confused, they are choked then binned.
I sinned, I discarded them
and did not let them sit beside each other on the page
where they would have had a meaning
not before prescribed for them.
Providence would have lured these words,
these letters so arranged
to a new home.
Instead they are crumbs that will not be gathered
except by the bin man.