Friday, March 17, 2006

One Hundred Words And A Poem About Joy

Once when I was failing, I'd come outside and sit in the graveyard beneath a church. The deer park and the Hall shimmered in late summer heat. I watched the strong clotted green of ancient oaks, the drone of lorries carrying grain from the fields and watched House Martins gathering along high cables.

And from this, a deep glorious joy stirred and rose up through me. In these moments, every afternoon, I felt angels were beside me, feeding me. The earth was holy and as this joy pulsed through me I felt lifted up and made strong and holy.

House Martins

Late summer
and the harvest almost over.

Each late afternoon
I closed my books
and left a room
that reeked of defeat,
where each word I read
joined the liturgy of failure
I was reciting to myself.

So I came outside
to sit beyond the church
among the grave stones.
The sky poured light,
the dark lines of clotted oaks
framed distant stubble fields.

I watched house martins gathering,
perched on long lines of cables
then scattering like seeds
into the wind.

Then I closed my eyes
listening to their high pitched whistles,
sharp, metallic, tuning in and out,
tearing my books apart.

The house martins reeling,
arcing the sky
low sunlight catching
their quick wings.

And further off the heavy drone
of lorries for miles
down winding country roads
carrying grain to empty silos.

22 October 2002

David Loffman

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