Pentecost

wild goose ripples the
primeval waters – soars, swoops,
ruffles the apostles' feathers

The first Christian

Je Suis Barabbas

What if Barabbas, smouldering in his cell,
should hear, perhaps from a guard on a good day,
of a wandering rabbi, of cures and crowds?

Or on a bad day, between beatings, he's taunted
with tales of a harmless preacher roaming free,
while he, the wild one, wastes in a stinking cage?

What if one day Pilate's smirking guards
wrench him to his blistered feet,
drag him through the dingy passageways

out to the blinding brilliance of a balcony
whose Roman colonnades lord it over the crowds.
What if he stands beside that wandering fool,

also bound and beaten, and a flash
of sympathy sparks between them, and
Barabbas nods as if to say, 'It's you or me, mate.'

And the other nods, as if to say, 'Then – me.
Let me die in your place. Never mind your crimes.
Go free. Be blessed. Live passionately.'

And Pilate's craven choice confirms the deal,
and the unlovely, unlikely rogue becomes
the first of us. I stand with him: unworthily set free.

Trinity

leaves rustling in the breeze
springing from the true vine
rooted in the ground of being

Schism

For Rosie

I miss you,

and the air's grown brittle,

and light a little grey. 

Everything's just less than whole

and joy's like milk left out a touch too long. 

If two become one and one is too long gone,

the other frets and frays to less than one. 

Grief is proof of love they say,

but love unloved seems frail and grey. 

You live, you've journeyed far away,

and will return. You say your love

by phone and text. I know it's true.

But this still feels like death postponed,

like meaning sapped, like eyesight dimmed. 

Come back: hold me, talk to me, be with me. 

Come back.