A Springtime Blessing

At the edge of the Rectory lawn a Hawthorn stands in silence. Compared to her lofty neighbours – Oak, Ash, Beech, Sycamore – she cuts a diminutive figure and as they welcome the return of the springtime sun by trying to outdo one another in their green-ness, she quietly dresses herself in muted tones to complement her rich, dark thorns.

I wouldn’t like to guess her age, and she wouldn’t tell me I’m sure, but the lightning scars which wend their way around her body speak of a life well lived. Her branches hang loose and carefree down her northern flank. Wisely she no longer tries to compete with the Beech beside her for the best of the sunlight but she gets what she needs and she’ll see another season through.

She spends most of the year watching over the garden, occasionally offering the Buzzard respite from the relentless onslaught of crows or providing the barefoot children with a fortress from which to fire their water pistols. However, for just a few days between the golden daffodils and the vibrant bluebells the Hawthorn sets aside her usual demure attire and dons a vibrant red blossom dress to attract and seduce the murmuring hordes of pollinators who are helpless to resist her experienced charms.

And as I look, astonished by her transfiguration, I too am rendered speechless in the face of such holy beauty. As the poet Mary Oliver once said, “Sometimes I need only to stand wherever I am to be blessed.” After a day of tears, this is a blessing I sorely needed.

* * * * *

The natural world – though that is too crude a phrase to truly do justice to the wild complexity of all that it endeavours to encompass – has a seemingly infinite capacity to astonish, to delight, to bless those whose eyes are open. And in doing so they can reveal to the world the one who is the beginning and the end of all things. In the days when God’s people could hardly dream of holding a Bible in their hands, let alone read it, they could see and hear and smell and taste and feel the fingerprints of their creator in the world around them.

It is not hard to imagine King David, long before the mantle of leadership was ever dreamt of, lying out on the hillside and gazing up at the stars, singing gently to his flock “The heavens declare the glory of God, the skies proclaim the work of his hands”.

Or to picture Paul, sat on the harbour wall in Corinth looking out across the sea to the mountains beyond and making a mental note to remind the church in Rome that “since the creation of the world God’s eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things he has made.”

* * * * *

In Constantinople in the seventh century, as the age of antiquity gave way to what we now disparagingly call the dark ages, a young man named Maximus was leaving the life of a courtier behind to follow God’s calling into the wilderness. Taking with him nothing but his vast intellect, he settled as a monk in North Africa where he began to pit his wits against the religious leaders of the day.

He wrote prolifically, taking the wisdom of the first half millennium of Christian thought and distilling it into something coherent and so devastatingly potent that his enemies cut off his hands and tongue in order to silence him. Time would vindicate him, however, and his reputation soon grew to match his output.

Maximus came to understand that the essence of every created thing, its unique purpose and identity, is given to it by the creator who is the beginning and the end of all things. Every part of God’s creation can, by its very being, reveal something of the creator. An eagle echoes God’s majesty. A mountain echoes God’s patience. A hawthorn, for a few days a year, echoes God’s breathtaking beauty.

As Maximus put it, Christ “ineffably concealed himself in each visible thing”. A thousand years later the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins would say that each creature “acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is – Christ. For Christ plays in ten thousand places”.

* * * * *

It was a shock when we had to close the Church buildings. Between one Sunday and the next we had become a dispersed Church, kept apart from one another by the threat of an unseen virus. The plans that we had made for Holy Week, Easter, Pentecost, were all thrown out of the window.

“The building may be closed but the Church is still active” our posters proclaimed, but it didn’t always feel like that. We were grieving, although we couldn’t necessarily put into words what we had lost. What would sustain us in our faith now that we could no longer gather around the scriptures, around the communion table?

And yet somehow we were sustained. We found ways to share the scriptures, if not the bread and wine, and despite our newly fragmented status we were sustained by one another. But above all, and perhaps most surprisingly, we were sustained in our faith by the blessing of Spring.

As the human world closed down, the non-human world was exploding with new life and now more than ever we had the time to notice it. It seemed, for those with eyes to see, that God was reminding us of Jesus’ command to consider the birds of the air and the flowers of the field and we did and we found there the fingerprints of our Creator.

* * * * *

A few days later I passed the hawthorn again. The red blossom dress which had so captivated me before had melted away and she was back to her old, unassuming self. And yet I knew that I was changed by the encounter, that I had been sustained by her beauty at a moment when I had needed that grace more deeply than I could know.

And so I offered a silent prayer of thanks to the creator whose heavenly beauty shone through the red blossom dress, and for the blessing that I had received simply by standing where I was and opening my eyes.

“Earth’s crammed with heaven
and every common bush afire with God,
but only he who sees takes off his shoes.
The rest sit around and pluck blackberries.”
– Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Rich Clarkson, June 13th 2020

The little blue-grey bag

This is a story about the Annunciation which I wrote for a service on Christmas Eve.

~~~

Rosie lived with her grandfather in a little cottage by the river.  The cottage had once been painted white but time had exposed the outlines of the bricks,  reminding Rosie of a riverbed at the end of a long, dry summer.

They didn’t have very much, and what her grandfather did have he shared with Rosie unreservedly, often going hungry himself so that she would have enough.

During one particularly hard winter, Rosie noticed that her grandfather’s plate was often empty and, knowing that there wasn’t enough food to go round she decided that she needed to do something about the situation.

So Rosie set off in search of food.  She put on her muddy green wellies and her big brown jacket and crept over the fence into the nearby woods but it was dark and damp and the squirrels had long ago taken all the half-decent nuts.

So she went down to the river instead, hoping to catch a fish or two with her little yellow fishing net but the water was icy cold and the fish were wily and slippery and she came away with nothing but a dull ache in her fingers and in her heart.

She was on the verge of giving up when she decided to go and have one last look in her grandfather’s allotment plot which sat just up the road from the cottage.  Maybe there would be something there that he’d missed, something to keep them going through the last days of winter.

It didn’t look promising.  The ground was all neatly turned over, and what plants she could see certainly didn’t seem edible.

But then, in the corner of the allotment, she spotted a little blue-gray bag, tucked away under an old yellowing sheepskin fleece.  She looked in the bag and saw that it contained a single golden-brown potato.

Rosie rushed back into the house to find her grandfather and she told him what she’d found.  “Shall I bring it in and you can have it for your tea?” She asked him.

“Oh you mustn’t” he replied, “that potato will feed us for the whole of next winter”

“One potato will feed us for a whole winter?” she said, incredulously.  “Yes,” her grandfather replied, “sometimes the smallest things are filled with the most potential”

That spring, when the days started to lengthen and the frost no longer clung so tightly to the ground, Rosie’s grandfather took her out into the allotment and showed her how to quarter the potato, making sure each chunk had an eye, and plant it deep into the soil.

As Spring turned to Summer Rosie watched the shoots appear and the plants begin to spread their leaves.

When the Autumn came, Rosie and her grandfather went out to the allotment with a fork and a fraying wicker basket and she watched in amazement as her Grandfather turned over the soil to reveal hundreds of golden-brown potatoes.

Rosie tried to count them all but she didn’t know enough numbers so instead she helped her grandfather gently wipe them clean and put them in the basket to take back into the house.

Before they returned home, however, Rosie watched her Grandfather choose one of the potatoes, put it in the little blue-grey bag, and tuck it under the old sheepskin in the corner of the allotment.

As they walked back along the road, Rosie asked him why he used a blue bag to store the special potato.

“Do you know the story of Mary?” he asked her

“I know about the donkey and the manger and the shepherds and the kings with their presents” she replied, closing the cottage door quietly behind her.

“Well”, he said, as the fire crackled into life, “before all of that Mary was just a young girl – not very much older than you.  But God chose her to look after something very small, and very precious.”

“Was that the baby Jesus?” she asked

“Yes, she had to look after him – even though she was only young herself, because that tiny baby growing inside her would one day give life to the whole world”

“Sometimes the smallest things are filled with the most potential”, Rosie murmured, remembering what her grandfather had said back in the allotment all those months ago.

“In pictures”, he went on, “Mary is always painted wearing blue, so that’s why I decided to keep my special seed potato in a blue bag – so that it would be protected, kept safe, just like Mary protected Jesus.

“And when the time is right, when the earth is ready, when the task is done, that precious little gift can go on to give life, and hope, and strength.”

Rosie watched her Grandfather settle back in his chair, and she wondered whether he was talking about Jesus, or the potato, but she decided it was just as true either way.  As her eyelids grew heavier the flames flickered up from the deep red embers of the fire, making the shadows dance around the room like a heavenly host watching over them as they slept.

Rich Clarkson, Christmas 2017

Ash Wednesday

For tonight’s Ash Wednesday service I wrote a monologue, retelling the story of the woman caught in adultery (John 8:1-11) from the perspective of one of her accusers.  I admit that I have embellished some of the details of the story (such as knowing what Jesus wrote) but I don’t feel any guilt about that!

~~~

I didn’t know her personally, you know, but I knew who she was.  I knew about the rumours, the reputation.  I knew what she’d done. What they said she’d done anyway.

I knew about him too, but he was a well respected public figure so we tried to keep his name out of it.  It wouldn’t go down well if he got caught up in the scandal.

It just makes me sick, you know, when people do things that are so patently wrong.  The law is clear, you don’t do it!  The punishment is clear too.  None of us enjoy this part of the job, it’s brutal, but someone has to do it and for now that’s us.

We got the tip-off from a neighbour early that morning.  Said she’d seen her sneaking in late at night but not out again so we knew she was likely to still be there.

As we entered the house I caught a glimpse of his face.  He looked at her with such tenderness, such love in his eyes.  But as soon as he spotted us that love turned to anger and he thrust her in our direction, “get this woman out of here” he shouted.

So that’s what we did.  We’d caught her in the act so there was no question that she was guilty.  You could see it in her eyes, she knew what she’d done, she knew what was coming.

We got to the temple just as the sun was beginning to creep over the hills, its golden light shone on the pale walls and scattered off the healing pools.

There would be no healing here today though, not for her.  This was the end of the road – the law had been broken and the punishment was death.

As we arrived in our little corner of the temple – out of the way so the tourists didn’t get put off – we tied her up and began to look around for suitable stones, not too big, not too small.  But as we turned back towards her we saw that she was not alone.

Someone was actually bending down and talking to her!  Perhaps it was one of the pilgrims who didn’t know what was going on but no, he looked like a Rabbi – surely he couldn’t misread a situation like this?

As he stood up and turned towards us I recognised his face, this was that new hotshot rabbi that everyone was talking about, the one who’d been making waves all through the countryside.  

Not the most popular chap around here if I’m honest, everyone wanted to be the one to get the better of him, to outwit him with some clever theological argument.  So far no-one had managed it. 

As we looked at each other we realised that maybe this could be our chance.  There was no loophole here, she’d committed the crime, been caught in the act, and the punishment was clear.  He couldn’t wriggle out of this one surely?

“Teacher”, our boss said to him, “this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery.  Now in the law Moses commanded us to stone such women.  Now, what do you say?”  Seemed like a pretty watertight argument to me!

We all waited with baited breath see what he would say, would he step aside and let us stone her?  Seemed unlikely given what we knew about him.  But surely he wouldn’t contradict Moses’ teaching?  Not here in the temple with dozens of witnesses?

For a moment he looked at us with such deep sadness in his eyes then, glancing back at the terrified woman behind him, he knelt down and started writing in the dust with his finger.

It took a moment to work out what he was writing, it wasn’t easy to make out, but I think it was a verse from the Torah,

“You are dust, and to dust you shall return” 

What did that mean?  He didn’t seem to be in any rush to answer our question and and after a while it seemed like he was just stalling for time so we kept pressing him.

“Come on Rabbi, what do you say?”

Slowly he stood up, brushed the dust off his hands and looked each of us in the eye.

“Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her”

It took a moment to sink in, but when it did it was like I’d been struck by the rock I was holding.  Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.

I looked at the woman again, really looked this time.  I saw the blood trickling down her cheek were we’d struck her.  I saw her hands, delicate fingers hardened by a life of hard work.  Through a rip in her dress I saw the stretch marks from a past pregnancy.  I didn’t know she had children, what would happen to them now?  I no longer saw the guilt, I saw the person.

And then I looked back at Jesus, and his eyes were like a mirror into my own soul.

I saw the bitterness I’d kept bottled up from all those times I didn’t get my own way.  I saw the fear that masqueraded as zealousness for God.  I saw the lack of compassion, of understanding, for anyone who didn’t agree with me.

I saw all those mistakes I’d made, mistakes I’d written off as ‘character flaws’, and suddenly I could see how others had been hurt by them.

As this washed over me in a flood of regret and sorrow, the stone in my hand felt like it weighed as much as one of the huge blocks that made up the temple wall.

I looked back towards the woman, but I couldn’t look her in the eye.  The guilt and shame I felt was so overwhelming I just turned and walked away.

As I walked the stone slipped from my hand and with it went the weight I’d been carrying around for so, so long.  The burden of guilt that had built up inside was suddenly washed away.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.  Turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ.

And from that day on that is what I tried to do, each day.  Of course I still made mistakes, who doesn’t.  But in acknowledging them, and repenting of them, they don’t weigh on me as heavily as they once did.

I even went to see the woman again, to try and put things right there.  But when I saw her from a distance, playing with her daughter, she looked so happy, like Jesus had given her a second chance in life. So I didn’t go any closer.  

I knew exactly how she felt.
© Rich Clarkson 2017

Two sonnets on healing

I wrote two sonnets recently which were both, in different ways, to do with healing.

The first, “For Wendy”, was written for a friend who has recently been re-diagnosed with breast cancer and it draws on a comment she made about valuing days differently now that she doesn’t have as many left.

The second was written for a service at which we offered prayer for healing and raised funds for Age UK by participating in “wear it woolly”. It was inspired by Psalm 139.

For Wendy
Some days the sunlight sparkles off the sea,
scattering its jewels through rising mist
then, safely gathered, like the memory
of summer or a child’s cheek newly kissed,
It lodges in the eye and in the heart,
A glint of hope when worlds are torn apart.
Yet days like these are rare, most days will not
be quite so fine or filled with fire. Most days
prefer to temper “what could be” with “what
is now”, cloaking life’s gold with winter greys.
A shadow falls. A smile fades. A friend,
through tears, marks the beginning of an end.
But endings are like evenings. Even night
Is pregnant with dawn’s promise of new light.

© Rich Clarkson 2017

~~~

Knitted
In my mother’s womb you knitted me
My fabric fashioned from your own design.
As weft and warp were woven, even then
You knew what this frail form would one day be.
Each stitch, with love and care, was intertwined
And tied off with a heavenly “Amen!”.
But some threads are no longer firmly tied,
and edges, over time, have become frayed,
causing                                       gaps to appear
revealing the unravelling inside.
We may indeed be “wonderfully made”,
but “fearfully” at times gives way to fear
yet one day God will take this threadbare frame
and weave it into beauty once again.

© Rich Clarkson 2017

Unusual words

I wrote a couple of impromptu poems on Facebook this evening inspired by some unusual words.

The first was inspired by the word  coddiwomple (which means “to travel purposefully an as-yet-unknown destination”)

It was dark outside but with one pull

Of the bell the train slid to a stop

I leapt out and began to coddiwomple

In search of a hoped-for shop

I knew there was one near the station

So set of with a purposeful stride

To my as-yet-unknown destination

And the treasures awaiting inside.

The second was inspired by the word pusillanimous (which means “showing a lack of courage or determination, timid”)

The votes are in, they are unanimous

On the question: “are you a man or mouse?”

Thankfully they were magnanimous

Saying I’m not pusillanimous

Crib Service poem

For this evening’s Crib Services (1,000 people across 2 services) I wrote a poem with responses for everyone to join in with.  I looked up rhymes for “amazing” and 4 of the suggestions were “grazing”, “stargazing”, “praising” and “self-raising”, after that the poem pretty much wrote itself!

Responses:

Mary – “Mamma-mia!” (Women)

Joseph – “Knock knock” (Men)

Jesus/baby – “shh…” (Children)

Angel – “hallelujah!” (balcony + choir)

Shepherds – “come-bye” (Left hand side)

Wise men – “wow!” (right hand side)

I want You – “who, me?” (Everyone)

.

Part 1. Journey to Bethlehem

A long time ago an ordinary girl called Mary (Mamma Mia!) was asleep

when God sent an angel (hallelujah) to wake her with a message that nearly made her weep:

He said I want you (who, me?)

Yes you to follow me

I’m going to do something amazing

I want you (who, me?)

Yes you for you see

that bun in your oven is self-raising!

Mary (Mamma Mia) woke Joseph (knock knock) who’d heard the same thing so, with a yawn,

They headed to Bethlehem where, in a crowded room, Jesus (shhh…) “God with us” was born.

.

Part 2. Shepherds and angels

Later that night some shepherds (come bye) were out on the hills with their sheep

when God sent some angels (hallelujah!) with a message that woke them right up from their sleep:

They said I want you (who, me?)

Yes you to follow me

In Bethlehem there’s something amazing

I want you (who, me?)

Yes you, come and see:

God is with us! leave your sheep to their grazing.

So the Shepherds (come bye) went down into town and found Mary (Mamma Mia) and Joe (knock knock)

Then when they saw the Lord Jesus (shh…) fast asleep they praised God before heading back home.

.

Part 3. Wise Men
A long way away some wise men (wow!) watched the skies in a far off land

So God sent a comet to blaze night and day. A message that they could understand:

It said I want you (who, me?)

Yes you to follow me

over there there’s something amazing

I want you (who, me?)

Yes you, and you’ll see

the king prophesied by your stargazing

So the wise men (wow!) packed and got on their way, and found the baby (shh…) who was also a kkin

Gave Mary (Mamma Mia) and Joseph (knock knock) the gifts they’d remembered to bring!

.

Part 4. Talk

In this church, in this town, on this Christmas Eve God is speaking to his people again

through Mary (Mamma Mia) and Joseph (knock knock) and Jesus (shh…) and Shepherds (come bye) and Wise men (wow!)

God says I want you (who, me?)

Yes you to follow me

This Christmas do something amazing

I want you (who, me?)

Yes you come and be

like the angels (hallelujah!) with your whole life God praising.

So in this season of peace and goodwill there’s a choice that each one of us here ought to ponder

God is not just for Christmas, he’s for our whole lives. God is with us, are you with him, I wonder?

Ten green bottles…

I’ve written this for my sermon today, it’s the story of the ten lepers who were healed by Jesus where only one came back to say thankyou.  I started wondering what it would be like to tell the story from the perspective of one who didn’t go back to say thanks.

Simple costume (towel headband, no stole) to identify character

It’s hard, being caught in the middle like that. Neither one thing nor the other.  We used to joke about it! We had to joke about it, we would have just given up otherwise.  There were ten of us, ten outcasts, ten refugees, ten…nobodies. Ten green bottles, went the joke – which of us would fall first?

I remember when I first realised what was happening. The rash which led to the stares which led to the avoidance, which led to the exile.  I had been happy, I had a good job, a lovely family, it was all taken away so quickly.  The problem is that once you’ve got that label you can’t shift it. That’s how they define you – you’re an outcast, an untouchable, one of “them”  So we had to stick with our own kind, our new own kind.

There were ten of us, some from Galilee, some from Samaria and we hung about in the scrubland between the two regions.  They hated each other so not many people crossed between them which suited us just fine.

The great irony is that before all this I had treated the Samaritans just like my people were now treating me!  I’d kept my distance, I’d told jokes behind their backs, even laughed about ‘Samaratianitis’ being infectious. Now that I think about it I was proper horrible to them.  The Samaritans in our group are just normal people, once you get your head round the accent they’re no different from the rest of us.  So there we were, ten nobodies, living a half-life in no-mans-land.  Ten green bottles, waiting to fall.

Then we started to hear the rumours. Rumours of a healer, Rumours of a Rabbi who wasn’t afraid, Rumours of a way out.  Now these kind of rumours fly around our community all the time so you have to take them with a pinch of salt – people with no hope will take whatever crumbs of hope they can get.  But these rumours wouldn’t go away so, without anything better to do, we kept an eye out for this itinerant young Rabbi.

One day the ten of us were sat in the dust, trying to find whatever shade we could behind the old wall when we saw movement in the distance.  There was someone coming towards us, heading South towards the village. I’m sure he spotted us about the same time we spotted him but, unusually, he didn’t turn away.  He just kept plodding on through the heat towards the village.  When he got close enough to hear us we began our usual begging routine: “Spare some change mate?”

Now usually there are three types of responses to this.  Some chuck a few coins towards us before scuttling past, some look guilty but walk on by anyway, and some just walk past like we weren’t even there.  This guy was different, he didn’t ignore us but he didn’t get any money out either. He just…stood there, like he was waiting for us to say something.

What was that Rabbi’s name? Joshua? Jairus? Jesus! “Jesus!” We called out. He smiled.  “Jesus! Master! Have mercy on us!” we cried, like our lives depended on it, which, I guess, they did. “Have mercy!”  He took a step forward. Instinctively we took a step back.  “Go!”, he called out. Our hearts began to sink. I’m not sure I could cope with yet another disappointment. “Go…and show yourselves to the priests”.  We all knew what that meant, the priests were the only ones who could say that we were better, say that we were no longer unclean, no longer outcasts, exiles, refugees.

Excitedly I looked at my hands, expecting them to be miraculously better but…they weren’t.  How many hours, how many long, angry hours had I stared at those scars, willing, wishing, praying for them to disappear, all to no avail. And now it was like those same scars were draining away the surge of hope I had felt. How could I show myself to the priests looking like this? They’d laugh me back out of town!

“Go on”, he urged, more gently this time, “go and show yourselves to the priests”.

To turn and make that first step was about the hardest thing I’ve ever done. They talk about stepping out in faith but I’m not sure how much faith I had left by this point.  It was more a case of stepping out in desparation but I managed it and once I’d taken that first step the second seemed a little easier.

I heard my mates just behind me so I inched ahead. If we were doing this then I was going to be first. Soon we were all running full pelt towards the village where we knew there was a little synagogue.  As I ran I felt my muscles getting stronger, I felt my fists clench tighter, I felt more alive than I had done in years! I didn’t dare look at my hands again, I couldn’t cope with another setback so I just concentrated on running and let the wind do its work.

When we finally made it to the synagogue we banged on the door and as the priest opened it we tumbled inside.  I don’t know how he made sense of our ramblings but eventually he got the gist of it and, after inspecting each of us he pronounced us all clean.

Then he got some parchment and started handing us notes to confirm this. 1..2..3..4..5..6..7..8..9. Nine? But there were ten of us? Who wasn’t here? One of the samaritans. Maybe he’d gone the other way, into Samaria? No that wouldn’t make sense. Maybe he’d not been healed? No he was definitely with us. What had happened to him? I staggered to my feet and stuck my head out of the synagogue door.

In the distance I could see two figures. One was out on the road, walking slowly towards the village, the other was running away from the village towards him. As they met, the second figure threw himself on the floor at the feet of the first. In an instant I realised what was happening – he was saying thankyou! I had been so caught up in my own feelings I’d barely thought about thanking the man who had transformed my life!

I turned back to my friends in the synagogue and told them what I’d seen, said that we should go back and say thankyou as well but when I looked back towards the road he was gone. There was just the solitary figure of our companion making his own journey towards the synagogue.

My life was completely changed after that day. I went back to my home town, complete with my certificate proving that I was ok, that I was clean again.
I was welcomed back into my family, I got a new job, picked up the pieces of my life again. But I was never quite the same.

Whenever my mates started making fun of the Samaritans I’d make them stop, I’d tell them that we shouldn’t fear people just because they are different from us – we are more alike than you know.
Whenever I saw someone sleeping on the streets I’d stop and talk to them, look them in the eye.

And even from a distance I kept an ear out for news of Jesus.
I heard rumours that he’d been rounded up and killed by the Romans for associating with people like me. I heard even stranger rumours that he was seen alive again afterwards.

And although I never got to say thankyou to him in person I make sure that I never take what I have for granted. That I am thankful every day for the new life that God has given me.

A roof over my head, a meal in my belly, a hug from a friend – these have taken on a whole new meaning for me. They are no longer ordinary, everyday things.

They are blessings from God, who lifts up the downtrodden and comforts the brokenhearted.

Blessings from God who turns mourning into laughter and tears of sorrow into tears of joy.

Blessings from God, whose mercies are new every morning, even when the night has been long and dark.

And for that I will always be thankful.

Hidden

This poem was written for tonight’s sermon at evensong.  It is based on these words from Isaiah 30

For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel:
In returning and rest you shall be saved;
in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.
But you refused and said,
‘No! We will flee upon horses’—
therefore you shall flee!
…
And when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left, your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying,
‘This is the way; walk in it.’

~~~

It is hidden
like a current beneath the waves
not thrashing and crashing and making a scene
not tossing and turning and clamouring for attention
but quietly, steadily, irresistably there.

It is hidden
like the trunk of a willow
As branches whip around in the wind
and leaves fly, and catkins cry out for fear of falling
In the turmoil it stands unmoved.

It is not found
in the stampede of the horse
or the silver words of the powerful
in the flashing diversions of billboards
or the honeyed lure of the bank balance

It is hidden
from all but those who seek it
those who are not turned
by the distractions that swirl
to the left and to the right

Those who know the still small voice
The word whispered close into the ear
“This is the way, walk in it”

© Rich Clarkson 2016

Praise God for Humble Moss

This poem was written in response to an article in the Guardian entitled ‘All Hail the Humble Moss‘, with a measure of inspiration from Gerald Manley Hopkins’ poem ‘Pied Beauty‘.

Praise God for humble moss, without whom we,
Who live and breathe and leap and laugh and praise,
Could no more do such things. Praise God for days
Long past when mosses spread from sea to sea
A continental carpet breathing fresh
New life into the oxygen starved air.
Praise God for lungs which found that they could bear
To breathe this atmosphere. Praise God for flesh
Which crept and crawled and leapt and breathed and moved
Among the lichens, liverworts and ferns.
Praise God for life’s tenacity across
The ages as it gradually improved,
Evolved, developed hopes, dreams and concerns.
For all of this, praise God for humble moss.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2016

“Why we have so many leftovers”

My friend Josh suggested writing a poem about leftovers, today’s poem (which is more or less a transcript of most of our mealtimes) is entitled “why we have so many leftovers!”

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“Not ’til you’ve finished your dinner”
Is the constant refrain on our lips
“Can I watch something?” “Can I get down?” “Can I play?”
“Not ’til you’ve finished your chips!”

“Can we go outside?” “Can we have a bath?”
“Can we put on our superman clothes?”
“when you’ve eaten what’s left on your plate first!”
“Oh, but that will take ages” “I KNOW!”

“Fine, just have four more then you can stop”
“Just have three more and then you are done”
“Just have two more big mouthfuls and then you can go”
“Come on open wide, here’s the last one…”

© Rich Clarkson 2016

Natural History Museum

Inspired by a trip to the natural history museum, a foray into the world of blank verse.

The queue is long, the sun is shining down
upon the gathered hoards.  With cameras primed
and guidebooks open ready for the day
they wait, though some more patiently than others.
Then, urged on by the bells, the great beast moves,
slithering its way towards the doors
like some vast prehistoric serpentine.

Transitioning from warm to cool, from light
to dark they make their way into the hall –
presided over by that well known frame,
which once inspired great fear, but now brings joy,
delight upon the faces of both young
and old, as Dippy watches over all.

Then from the central chamber’s beating heart
the crowds, like blood, are pumped around the whole:
through corridors, round galleries, up stairs.
And as its hushed tones rise towards a roar
the dormant building slowly comes to life.

This ancient silver-speckled behemoth
stands proudly as a creature in its prime
Sharing its age-old wisdom with the world
Revealing the secrets of another time.

© Rich Clarkson 2016

Clouds

Scudding across the sky like a gleefully skimmed stone
The little cloud made her way speedily home
Back towards the mountain where her journey began
In the gully on the hillside where the little stream ran

But the gully on the hillside seemed deeper than before
And the stream a little quicker to the valley floor
And the journey to the river and the river to the sea
Wasn’t quite what the cloud remembered it to be

Then the waves in the ocean and the pull of the sun
Reminded the cloud why she found this ride such fun
And as she got ready to turn back into rain
She cried out to her friends “Come on let’s do that again!”