Finest china set, table laid
The sparkling wine served in the best crystal saucers
Raising a trembling hand
To remember my dear, sweet one
And to toast her
 
Throughout the room I see her there
The empty glass, the hue, the lonely chair
Shut the door don’t let them see me cry
 
Tears are the robes in which I cover myself
My vestments of comfort
Sewn with the fragile thread of the moments we shared
Vivid with colour
 
Before the silver cord was snapped
Before the golden bowl was dropped and cracked
Before the constant sacramental yawning
The hollow mask of mourning  
 
Mask of sorrow, mask of grief
The flinty mask of wounded disbelief
Shut the door don’t let them see me cry
Don’t let them see me cry


Mask Of Sorrow

(Almost) The Smallest Church in England

In golden light of March
We set out to Upleatham Church
There was a strange calm
She stayed in the car
I got out
Climbed atop the wall
Walked through the graveyard

The door was locked
But I could see inside it
There was nothing in there
Only dust and crumbling stone

I rushed back to the car
“Come quickly”, I said to her
“You must see this”
Reluctantly she came
Making her way among the graves
Of the departed

“What am I supposed to be seeing?
There is nothing in there
Only dust and folded clothes”

I held her arm 
I didn’t need to answer
We were both of the same mind
Thinking the very same thing



(Almost) The Smallest Church In England

SEASONS OF CHANGE

O! Seasons of change!
The harvest will fail!
O! Modern day prophet!
“Build up the storehouse
While we still have the time”

Seven ears of grain
Blighted by the east wind

O! Uproar and riot!
“Nobody saw this coming”

Seven ears of grain
Blighted by the east wind


Seasons Of Change

THE SILENT LANDS

Silent in the cell of contemplation
Eighty miles apart from comfort’s door
Overwhelmed by constant information
All pervading sense of overload
Stripped of easy highs and entertainment
Nothing but a bag of blood and bones
Waves of heady joy and consolation
Swept away through dark night of the soul

In the silent lands
Where the white noise fades
And the true self
Rises up over false

Sun rising over the gloom
Light shining into the room

In the silent lands
Where the white noise fades
And the true self
Rises up over false

In the absence of human presence
I cannot help but think of what I have become
No screen to hide behind
No solace of illusion
What remains of me when no one is watching?

In the silent lands
Where the white noise fades
And the new self
Rises up over false


nilsolav