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ThE pOsY

a mother died, and in the grave they laid her; her orphaned children, left behind, Came every morning and a visit paid her, Seeking their mother dear to find. for her dear children so the mother grieved her soul once more was found Embodied in a flower with tiny leaves Spreading across her burial-mound.

They knew their mother by its exhalation – They knew, and joyful they became; The simple flower that brought them consolation ‘mother’s dear soul’ they chose to name.

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Soul of our mother, dear to our own nation, You simple narratives of ours, On that far mound I plucked your inspiration – Whom shall I give these flowers?

Into a modest posy I will bind you, With ornamental ribbon wound; To far-flung lands a pathway I will find you Where people of your kin abound.

And there, perhaps, the daughter of some mother Will draw the sweet breath of your scent; Perhaps the son of someone or another You’ll meet, his heart on you intent.

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The treasure

I amongst the beech-trees, on a mound, a litt le church, low-towered, stood; and from the tower was heard a sound In hamlet close at hand, and wood.

The church bell’s sound is nothing choice, lost on the nearby hillsides falling: dark is the clapper’s wooden voice, folk to God’s own temple calling. from the hamlet, God revering, Crowds of people make their way; These are village folk, God-fearing, and Good friday falls today.

In church it’s gloomy: walls stripped bare, The altar with a black veil hung; a cross stands firm upon it there; In the choir the Passion’s sung.

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But see – what is that flash of white In the black woods beyond the spring?

Some woman from the hamlet, she – Who in her arms holds something tight.

With rapid steps she’s hastening, Dressed in her Sunday finery, There on the slope beyond the spring – A little boy she’s holding tight.

The woman’s running; down she flies, To God’s own temple hurrying by: There on the wooded slope nearby The church upon its hillock lies.

And in the dale towards the spring, Sharply her steps she’s quickening; For the freely-blowing breezes Sounds of song from church are bringing: Of the Passion of Lord Jesus In the choir just now they’re singing.

She runs – beside the rock she flies: ‘Can I believe my eyes? Strange thing…

What, are my senses telling lies?’

She stops, and all around her stares – Rapidly her steps retraces, Stops again; about she faces – ‘The forest’s there, the brushwood’s here, And through the fields the path leads there – I can’t have lost my way, that’s clear!

What’s happening to me, Lord – what’s wrong?

Why is that stone not here by me?

Whatever is this change I see?’

Again she stops, again walks on,

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She goes, all incredulity, her eyes she’s rubbing with her hand; She moves, and one step nearer stands: ‘dear God, what change is this I see?’ where, from wild brushwood overgrown, from the church three hundred paces, In the path jutted one great stone, what’s the sight her eye now faces?

There before her, plain as plain – The hill gapes wide, an entrance clear – Something that she can’t explain – The stone stands in the pathway here, The whole rock planted firm, four-square, as if it always had been there.

To the woman’s eyes is shown a way beneath the earth, a room vaulted in the flinty stone; where the vaulted hall’s concealed In the hillock’s sombre womb, Something like a flame’s revealed. and it burns with shining whiteness like the moon’s clear glow at night; and it flames with crimson brightness, like the sunset’s western light.

The woman, seeing this, amazed, a step towards the entrance tries; using her palm to shade her eyes, She looks around this radiant place. ‘lord, how it shines in here – how bright!’ her eyes she’s rubbing with her hand; She moves, and one step nearer stands:

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‘how it shines here – how strangely bright! whatever can it be, that light?’ but she’s afraid to venture more, and stands outside; looks through the door.

She lingers, standing by the door – No longer in the vault she stays; as fear within her gaze is quelled, by curiosity impelled, Onward the woman makes her way.

Step after step – and all the way, Stronger is every one she takes; Step after step – through rock of grey where only a sleeping echo wakes. as further on the woman goes, The curious radiance grows apace.

The vault comes to an end just there, but such astonishment she shows Th at with her hand she hides her face, She cannot risk a direct stare.

She sees – what is she seeing, then? whoever saw the like, and when?

Such beauty and such brilliancy In heaven alone she thought to see!

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