Three winter poems by Jenny Young, an elder at our Chatton church
Thoughts during a week of prayer for Christian Unity meeting
Lord, forgive.
We are united, here in this small town,
We work together, pray together, agonise together.
Without uniformity, our unity is real.
But is our reality real?
We worry about our ever-increasing average age,
And envy other congregations with children,
While secretly being half glad not to have that responsibility.
But this is not what it's all about!
The immediacy of faith, the joy of union with God, the feeling of being cherished,
They all are most felt when your back's against the wall,
When everything is going pear-shaped,
When you're losing your love, or your child, or your health or your sanity.
The rest of the time you just coast along, living on spiritual capital.
But what about all our fellow human beings, who need this nurture, as they succumb to floods, or drought, or plague, or war?
Some of their suffering is down to us.
All their suffering is our business, our reality.
DECEMBER MOON
A cold, clear light it has, this December moon,
Shining, coldly scorching into my bedroom,
Keeping me from sleep.
The other day, a foggy Saturday, we were trying to paint the spare room:
Even with the light on, (but it had a blue bulb, we discovered later)
There was no light, no clarity.
So we went through the motions.
Could I see better to paint in this cold light?
Probably not, but it seems as if I could.
I think of the trees in Baliffgate, full of pretty twinkling lights,
Heralding Christmas. On two of them the time-switch is faulty,
And they shine on, not bravely but grimly, in the fog of day.
Are they still shining, I wonder, vainly in the moonlight?
Is this a metaphor for Christmas? Relentless jollity,
Inexorable appetite for food and drink and presents,
Conspicuous, cold consumption?
No, for the reality is those gentle tights,
Twinkling on, their gentleness a constant
Reminder of the love, the care, the giving spirit
That underlies the razzmatazz.
That gives me peace and strength .
MIST
Everything used to be so clear!
Black and white, right and wrong, love and hate,
And clouds in the sky lent an intensity to the light,
The silhouettes of things stood out in the lowering light.
But now my eyes are getting old, my brain is tired.
Life is like living in a mist. Nothing is sure.
The way ahead seems clear, but then is not.
The bend in the path comes quicker than you think.
From nowhere comes an evil threat, an unimagined blackness.
Familiar sounds distorted, what has always been is no more.
Can I believe my eyes, my senses?
I must plod on.
To live accepting this uncertainty is madness, senility!
I know the sun will break through. It must!
Meanwhile I take refuge in inertia, steep my life away.
All that is left is hope.