Inchcolm
The whispers still remember,
as when bright colors fade
or leaves in deep November
on branches bare are splayed,
yet still they have a power,
the queen, the monks, the saint,
to seize in quiet hour
the heart whose feelings paint
the very world we see,
the things we think we know,
and guide us on the journey
beneath a sunlit glow.
Eucharistic
The autumn leaves are falling brown and dusty on the road,
the winter chill is beating like a hammer on the brain,
the sun perhaps forever-lost is hiding, veiled by cloud.
A dull and aching boredom rules, worse than any pain,
and time --
the word is inexact, but we may call it 'time' --
time is bare, oppressive;
it smothers the sublime.
We itch to walk and wander,
inquire, think, and ponder --
we itch but do not scratch,
for where is there to journey
when the sameness never ceases
(brown below and gray above)
and life in bits and pieces
knows not peace nor joy nor love?
All drained of every color,
now fades life and light,
and all without reprieve await
an all-elusive night.
Yet in a little building, quiet, tucked away,
a little light of day
through dismal dark is breaking,
a single subtle ray
of sunlight bright and pure
like water to the thirsty, to the ill a cure:
like bread plain and unobtrusive
yet of endless grace diffusive,
like red wine upon the tongue
but ever ancient, ever young,
but the bread is living bread
and the wine is holy vine
and they who see and taste that supersubstantial sign --
the word is inexact, but call it living sign --
are abundant with renewal that can resurrect the dead.
The autumn leaves are falling brown and dusty on the road,
the winter chill is beating like a hammer on the brain,
yet sublimely, and how finely, like fair face behind a veil,
with enigmatic smile lives the lamb that had been slain.
