Wednesday, October 09, 2013

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

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