Lawrence Hall
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                                          A Village for Our Exile

Far is that City of God for which we hope
Here the cities of man in which we live
Glorious, but still only refugee camps:
Constantinople, Athens, London, Rome

Give us for our exile a village instead
A pub, a library, a shop, a little school
Cows and sheep grazing on the grass of the commons
A hay wain lumbering through the summer stream

Draught horses drinking from the little rill
In the ford below the slow-clacking mill

(Cf. John Constable, “The Hay Wain”)

only two dancers
remain standing
shuffling
   and swaying
under syncopated lights
held by
an unspoken law
an apparently unavoidable
trait of human nature
that forces them
to continue despite
such terrible choices
of song
and persistence
each was merely
a "friend
   of the bride"
moving in different circles
prior to this
their dancefloor meeting
unfortunately
neither can now
abandon the other
to dance alone
to risk being seen
as the cause
for bringing this
near-sacred ritual
to an end
these residual bodies
left with no choice
but to mirror
each movement
match every sidestep
echo every clap
with rhythm
   or without
it will not matter
so long as this
transient solidarity
of misplaced confidence
and forced smiles
continues into
the next song

For through these moments
and all of this time

Was an instance of
releasing the control

Of looking for sincerity
in spontaneity to be real

To seek instead a way
of being that just flows

And in doing so giving
trust to the surroundings

With hands and heart held
open to whatever happens

So that there is no worry
no contemplation, no undoing

Instead what is found is
simply grace and easiness

Then the calm rushed in
so silently yet instantaneously

With sweet dreams of the
sunshine tomorrow brings