Dedicated to all migrants, exiles and the children of war-torn countries...and those nearer at hand, trafficked, abused and casualties of broken homes...
A Different Way
The Virgin Speaks
We had to go a different way –
I suppose it was to be expected –
taking the path that snakes down into Egypt
and the rufous sands of our kindred
country, shuffling the stones out of place,
the vegetation, itself acicular,
resembling our abraded mood,
fraught and fugitive.
Forewarned by a compelling dream,
we speedily forsook our homeland
and the shabby stable enshrined by Grace
wherein the Spirit of our True Abode
consumed us in its shimmering vision
and we did indeed possess
that Kingdom promised to our
How soon the world's rapacious jaws
were poised to trap the infant Hope of Israel
Herod trod the warpath, his blood up, lest he be called
to forfeit power. Rather slay the nation's
Innocents, be sure the threat has died
the death, feasting can resume
and the illusion that he alone
No resting-place, no refuge then,
The night air gnawed the cheek-skin,
yet the firmament above hosted the selfsame stars,
their aspects changing subtly,
that guided men of wisdom,
Rulers of the East, and honest shepherds,
from a cold and rocky altitude
and garnered them.
Oh Abraham, hallowed patriarch!
Spearhead of our toilsome path,
God pledged a race as populous as gems of heaven,
and you believed, but could not trust the manner
of its coming. You, childless and disdained,
took matters into your own hands,
abetted by Sarah, true daughter of Eve,
and begot elsewhere.
A bastard line, the Ishmaelites,
born of your housemaid, Hagar, who scorned
her mistress' shrivelled womb and barren years,
earned persecution for her spite and fled
into the wilderness. It was those ancient footprints
we, the Holy Family, retraced, adjusting
Cosmic Balance that quarter might be
given to exiles.
Time's passed, is passing, will pass,
the sum of it , the essence, still distilling
I am caught up in paradise no mortal mind
can bear the telling of. All lives, breathes peace
Unclench your fist for Eucharistic Bread,
earnest of that age-old pact, and you will
richly gain a foretaste of this Land,
bending to prayer.
The strife on earth does not abate,
and conflict scars the centuries for Jew
and Arab cousins. No ploughshare, no pruning-hook
their arms foretell. Ire explodes and gushing blood
the soil stains. Sheol needs no further depths
when they distrust God's will, an inalienable
commonwealth, plum-rich, and blindly shun
His Different Way.