This month I call you Saviour.

Mostly, instinctively
I call to you as Lord-God and Father.
Typically these are the names
I call to mind at early dawn.

But this month you are Saviour
as I become more acutely drawn
to my need to call on your saving grace
to draw on your sacrificial willingness
to cast off the trappings
wrapped up with heavenly glory
to embrace the blood and the mess
that comes with small town nativity
and ultimate betrayal in the big city.

This month I address my Hosannas
to you, my loving, risen Saviour.

I know a God, almost
too lovely to behold, his soft touch
stirs in me multiple wonders.

I’m stirred and I gaze into his face
and I gauge his embracing grace
in the way his body moves.

His graceful body moves
into mine and embraces
me whole, bone and soul.

His gentle, generous whispers
suffuse my soul as he strokes
my fragile spirit back to life.

Then at my dawn in his arms
I’m turned and immersed,
sated by in his gifted innocence.

I’m turned and I’m sated
by the flow of his thick breast milk
and the sweet fruit of his vine.

Together, we sway to slow angel-song
while he tutors me in timeless arts,
in his long-lost sweeping steps.

His timeless arts arouse in me
long aches of ancient senses,
not least the thrill of love’s touch.

And so, hand touching hand
I’m released, liberated
to love him and to run.

I run, released into him
sinking into him, to dance
in step for an eternity.

When we sat at that table
the one by the sea and the night
I looked up and caught your eyes
I caught their light full beam
I found a reflection
spiegel im spiegel
mirror in mirror
promising an unending
taking me further
than I had planned.

I'm still transported.

Is it as I get older that I become less sure,
more inclined to explore,
looking for words that better call
for open minds and open hands
– letting our stones fall
to give room for embrace.

Is it as I get older that I sadden
at the confidence (arrogance?) of those
who fashion words as weapons
who channel living streams into moats
with no thought to building boats
with all efforts on draw-bridge defenses
less our certainties be conquered
by those with much bigger shields
and sharper swords.

Is it as I get older that my bent prayers
creak louder and are prone to deeper pain
and I better appreciate why Jesus barely contained
his despair at ill-disciplined disciples
and the divergence of their words and actions
because I am Peter and John – I run
with more questions than answers
but with tears at how he manages
to love me after all.

The bigger my heart,
the greater I hurt.

The more open my mind
the deeper I think.

The greater my reach
the more I need grounding.

------------------

The older I get
the more I listen.

The more I listen
the keener my hearing.

The more I hear
the harder I weep.

Can a mailbox truly expire
or does it simply get archived?

Can a text really be deleted
or does it move to another folder?

Can I simply log off and shut down
or do I remain partially connected?

When I manage to restart
I hope I retain some memory.

‘Once upon a time’ -
that’s not the first line
not the start of this plot
it’s not where we start

no smart-talking mirror
no scheming stepmother
no frog in a pond
no magical wand

‘In the beginning’
and again
‘In the beginning’
That’s the story we’ve got -
us and our God