Dürnstein Remembrance

The image at the end of this poem started me thinking after a visit to the village churchyard in Durnstein, during a cruise on the Danube, and the poem followed a fortnight later.

Dürnstein Remembrance

Wachau vines, embroider meadows beside the Danube, green on green.

The soil that succours them once drank the blood of men

fighting for visions and ambitions not their own.

No time to gather the fallen, beckoned by destiny to another victory afar,

the harvest of death abandoned to the mercy of others

who tended orchard and pasture here, bonded to the land by ancestry and affection,

compassion and hospitality their work of art.

There behind the walled village church,

rising over groomed memorials, greensward and gravel

another sanctuary rises, sparse and simple, a terminus for parting gestures,

while earth is broken open to receive its latest guest and the prayer of those left behind awaiting the resurrection.

Beneath the mourners lies a vault visible from the threshold,

holding in neat dismembered order the bones of thousands,

sojourning here since their last battle.

Anonymous, yet still recognised.

Victims of that unforgotten fateful day.

The humble folk who shouldered the burden of bearing the fallen

to their rest, have no memorial. Striving to re-order their lives,

unwittingly they made this common tomb a place of pilgrimage.

The enclosing porch to this gated realm of present grief and the ancient dead

shelters Christ hanging naked and alone upon His cross, embracing all

His arms fixed eternally by iron, extended there in defiant self-offering.

There, embracing known and unknown alike,

There, inspiring compassion that makes us human

There appealing for all whose death seems to have so little meaning,

from our bleak distant vantage point.

Between His transfixed hand and the wood of sacrifice

a sparrow's nest is perched. An improvised, transient pile of gathered twigs

brings for a season the sound of birth and new life, a mere fragment

of perennial birdsong consoling the shadows cast

by sunlight, by sorrow, by the passage of time.

06/06/2016

Coming to terms with emptiness

An undated fragment from a notebook written following the unexpected death of brother in law Eddie Colvill on St Luke's Day, but given the date of All Souls Day.

How can I write my tears?

Where can I set them down

and gaze at the wonder

of love that gave them birth?

There is only aching

restless misery in

endless moments of loss

transfixed by the void here

between the fullness of the past

and a future yet to be revealed

whatever it may contain,

good or ill.

All certainty is gone

Seemingly helpless

faced only with

the perennial struggle

to conquer fear

to be found by peace

in the eternal present.

JKK 02/11/2015

The toast

Written in Nerja after attending the banquet of a young couple whose marriage I had blessed earlier in the day.



The toast

Long life and happiness

was what they wished for you

at each stage of your journey.

Setting out alone or together,

In parting and re-union.

the lasting gift of good will -

love in the sign of a raised cup.

And always,

the barely audible question

uneasily voiced – how long?

How long does joy or sorrow last?

How long is waiting - together or apart?

Living provides all the answers.

As time passes, each new toast proposed,

the same question is tinged,

less with fear and more with gratitude;

for all that has been, still is and ever will be.

How long – we’ve had? And have been blessed!

The light of life well lived shines on,

despite the end to come.

It’s not that darkness overwhelms

as our poor light seems to pale

and fade to nothingness.

It’s unseen, uncreated light

that hides us, in love’s incandesence

abiding at last where truly we belong.

JKK 16.05.15

Meditation on open hands

This was written partly during a church quiet day in La Cala de Mijas, and over the days following, in response to a meditation given on the same theme by lay Reader Caroline McFarlane.

 
Sitting underneath the fig tree
pondering the mystery of
the Word revealed in simple things ….

An open hand speaks of welcome
trust and peace, of supplication,
self-giving and self-abandon.

And yet -

An open hand delivers the
blameless one to condemnation

An open hand with anger strikes
the face of compassionate love

An open hand is bound and pierced
by crucifying cruel steel

Though not before ...

An open hand receives and bears
with gladness the victim's burden

An open hand wipes clean the brow
of bloody sweat and sorrow's tear

An open hand stretches with sponge
to wet parched lips as death draws near

And there is more ...

An open hand in greeting raised
speaks of triumph over evil

An open hand in pardon sweeps
away the shroud of guilt and shame

An open hand in blessing sends
forth witnesses to gracious love

An open hand reaches out and
takes Christ's gift of himself revealed
in living bread and wine outpoured.

We, mindful of many meanings,
offer in trust these open hands
each to each, and to the Other.

J.K.K. 14.11.13

Unsual weather

This was written as I reflected on an unusual weather event during my stay last summer in Nerja Andalusia,.


Nerja - foggy afternoon

Sun's fierce heat bleaches the promenade, high above the shore:
regal balcony from which to gaze with equal eye at the sea's horizon
keenly defined against the pale backdrop of midday sky.

Midsummer passers-by find respite in the avenue of noble palm trees
enlivened by parakeet chatter and glimpses of small silent butterflies.
Their shade reconciles visions of tranquil seascape
with the festive summer bustle of El Salvador plaza,
humming with the leisure of lunchtime table talk.

Shrieking swifts swirl above like clouds of dust
their conviviality curtailed by relentless need to feed upon the wing,
flirting hastily with spaces in between the giant fronds of leaves
granting them shade and shelter too.
Much movement, sound and colour diverts the mind.

The far horizon's gradual effacement goes unheeded.
Over the sea, taller than a steeple, rolls with stealth a wave of cloud.
It suddenly plunges the plaza into autumn mist and chill, 
subduing conversation, astonishing birds and sun seekers alike.
Beaches empty, shivering devotees seek refuge
in warmer welcoming boutiques and hostelries.

Before it claims stark sierras enfolding the coastal plain,
this foretaste of a season still to come,
halts and hovers uncertainly before the sun's glare
in orchards, bamboo groves and parking lots
intersecting highways, arousing apprehension in travellers,
lapping the land – just as tide caresses shore – albeit silently.

This insubstantial wave recedes as swiftly as it came,
heralded only by the return of light and shade, warmth and colour
to the promenade, with sight of sky and swirling swifts
arousing fresh anticipation of social moments al paseo.

High summer still it is, after the drama of the day.

J.K.K. 20.10.13

Seasonal affective disorder?

During an office tidy-up session, I found a sheet of paper with a few lines written this time last year during the annual Ty Mawr Associates' Day meeting. We were invited to draw or write something that reflected on being there together at Michaelgarth as a group of people pledged to accompany the Sisters of the Sacred Cross in their life of contemplative prayer and closeness to nature in their beautiful hillside location. 

It was a fairly overcast day with only moments when the landscape shone in a way that is familiar to all who have visited there, in season and out of season. In the absence of blue sky and sunshine, I struggle to rise to my usual sense of appreciation of the world about me. I guess I also struggle with the absence of regular attachment and belonging to a close-knit everyday discipleship community now that I serve as an itinerant locum pastor. So, these few lines are a muted echo of this experience, as much as they are a weather report.

Autumnal day at Ty Mawr

Overcast sky

a random tapestry-

filaments of white and grey

Sombre does no justice

to the mood

when heaven's glory is concealed

Not in the cloud, but

underneath

is where we wait

consoled by fleeting sunbeams.

J.K.K. - 20.10.12

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