Faith our outward sense befriending

I find solace and hope in the world as sacrament, yet it's often in darkness or in harsh places that I am brought vigorously to my senses and caused to wonder. He's a collection of finds from the unidentified files of my archive, from the years when I travelled Wales, working for the United Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.

In the hour before the night
reluctantly surrenders
to a pale grey dawn,
a lone bird's song sweetens
the chill dank air.

It enters that nether world
where dreams and waking thoughts mingle -
where the doubts of day begin
to take their shape -
and rings a carillon of hope
in times uncertain.

"As sure as I am herald of the morn
 here on this bare bough
 through seasons harsh and fair
 to welcome the return of light,
 love will prevail.
 And even in defeat and darkness
 will not ultimately fail."

J.K.K. - 5.1.87

Spring at Ty Mawr

The song of the bird

The soaring wind

The rustle of unfolding leaves

The dash and sparkle of bright brook

The stillness of dew decked blossom

call out 

"Who will accompany us in homage

to the source of our wonder?"

As shadows shrink

in quiet meadows,

the dawn Angelus declares

the stirring of an answer.

J.K.K. -10.5.88

Blind faith

Years of walking in darkness,

no moon or star to guide the way:

easily deceived by occasional glimmer;

progress too often a daunting deception;

existence, a hoping against all hope:

secured from oblivion by nothing more

than a promise,

the distant echo of a voice

saying "Follow......"

And then, without warning

to stumble into the light!

Senses amazed and agonised

in their release

overwhelmed with confusion

as the shadows flee

and the Word is once more confirmed

"He who calls you is faithful, and will do it."

J.K.K. - 18.12.89

Spartylea November 

Gaunt winter trees

roar at the chafing wind.

Empty fields etched by

stone walls in sparse grass

await the return

of long gone husbandmen.

Centuries seem to slip away

un-noticed here.

There is day and night

and mist.

Only the river seems to know

its purpose -

and the grey houses

that are bastions of warmth

and gentleness.

J.K.K. - 1.11.90

Annecy, late August 1992 

We awaken to the first chill of autumn

to the sound of rain and complaint of thunder,

gathering clouds obscuring distant peaks.

We rise reluctantly and shivering;

first light to sunrise is a long vigil.

Single scorched leaves flutter gently earthward

among the glistening droplets: parched earth and

forest offer oblations of white mist,

reducing mountains to dark veiled shadows.

Morning arrives, then feigns to leave again.

J.K.K. - revised 12.8.95