Chapel of rest
1
The lid stood by discreetly, we could admire
Its fit shape, ready, how it would match the rim
And the screw holes marry up. Oak and brass also
How they were good and well put to their purpose
And the soft quilt was a thoughtfulness, a kindness. All throve,
Even the bone on the cross, they had the virtue
Of use and all in their own colours. The flowers in every degree
From an almost black red to the poles of white
They neighboured one another, they lent one another hints
Of possible other ways of being seen, they bloomed, they breathed
To life in us the fluttering starts of love in dead bracken,
The trespassing in gardens, the pillaging, the armfuls,
The soaked places, the red, the plush, silk, cotton, lace, the webs
And the threads of sorrow drifting on the wind for years.
A stook or a wreath of flowers is a million likenesses
And these faced out and breathed and lived and gave of themselves
To us and faced away from the thing that was their cause that is
Like nothing and the colour of nothing on earth but its own self.
2
Gauche humans that can think and feel and speak and sing
We cluttered in as though we had quit the street
Abruptly for an exhibition, to be out of the rain
And stood around embarrassed
With bags and gloves and hats and crumpled brollies
Bulky and miserable like yokels strangely called
To a lever, who did not know the form.
Some nattered in a little group, averted; one clapped
His phone hard up and spoke away; most looked to be
Not attendant, only waiting, at a loss. But one
Was beautiful and purposeful. She had laid
Her sorrow under ice for the necessary while
And to a man whose office made him witness
Many poor settings for the lights of amethyst
She was handing a bracelet and a necklace. Soon
They rested the head again, they tucked the ornamented pulse
Back under the coverlet to have a kind
Of warmth.
3
The centre froze our hearts. But very late
Before the lidding, in all her scooter gear
Disburdening her head, shaking out her hair
In came a girl who shone from the hard sleet
And looked with candour fearlessly
At you, the cause. She was
An emissary of the ordinary thriving streets who nipped
Through the weather and the traffic, she was agile,
Clever at it, neat, she was the liveliness itself
In its true colours she faced up to you,
Dear friend, the eloquent stopped, the beautiful discoloured
By death, that radiant girl, we saw again what we are fit to be
On the risen wave of life, the lifted face, her face
Come in and shining with the cold and rain, scenting of rain,
Scented with the life outside, come in and risen up,
Made sorrowful, made tearful by the force of love and by that force
Answering for you, answering for us, against
Death’s saying forever no, for ever saying yes.
The lid stood by discreetly, we could admire
Its fit shape, ready, how it would match the rim
And the screw holes marry up. Oak and brass also
How they were good and well put to their purpose
And the soft quilt was a thoughtfulness, a kindness. All throve,
Even the bone on the cross, they had the virtue
Of use and all in their own colours. The flowers in every degree
From an almost black red to the poles of white
They neighboured one another, they lent one another hints
Of possible other ways of being seen, they bloomed, they breathed
To life in us the fluttering starts of love in dead bracken,
The trespassing in gardens, the pillaging, the armfuls,
The soaked places, the red, the plush, silk, cotton, lace, the webs
And the threads of sorrow drifting on the wind for years.
A stook or a wreath of flowers is a million likenesses
And these faced out and breathed and lived and gave of themselves
To us and faced away from the thing that was their cause that is
Like nothing and the colour of nothing on earth but its own self.
2
Gauche humans that can think and feel and speak and sing
We cluttered in as though we had quit the street
Abruptly for an exhibition, to be out of the rain
And stood around embarrassed
With bags and gloves and hats and crumpled brollies
Bulky and miserable like yokels strangely called
To a lever, who did not know the form.
Some nattered in a little group, averted; one clapped
His phone hard up and spoke away; most looked to be
Not attendant, only waiting, at a loss. But one
Was beautiful and purposeful. She had laid
Her sorrow under ice for the necessary while
And to a man whose office made him witness
Many poor settings for the lights of amethyst
She was handing a bracelet and a necklace. Soon
They rested the head again, they tucked the ornamented pulse
Back under the coverlet to have a kind
Of warmth.
3
The centre froze our hearts. But very late
Before the lidding, in all her scooter gear
Disburdening her head, shaking out her hair
In came a girl who shone from the hard sleet
And looked with candour fearlessly
At you, the cause. She was
An emissary of the ordinary thriving streets who nipped
Through the weather and the traffic, she was agile,
Clever at it, neat, she was the liveliness itself
In its true colours she faced up to you,
Dear friend, the eloquent stopped, the beautiful discoloured
By death, that radiant girl, we saw again what we are fit to be
On the risen wave of life, the lifted face, her face
Come in and shining with the cold and rain, scenting of rain,
Scented with the life outside, come in and risen up,
Made sorrowful, made tearful by the force of love and by that force
Answering for you, answering for us, against
Death’s saying forever no, for ever saying yes.
Page(s) 12-13
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