Remembrance

Its hard now to recall the sense of stepping out of time that last week
involved. The urgencies of life suspended. Meetings, conference calls,
presentations and fear of failure replaced by greetings, shuddered hugs,
prayers and deeper, purer fears.

Death's shadow gave life a rhythm and the day's dawn and dusk became
visible, meaningful.

Invisible was the director that brought new players
onto our stage to play their part as seamlessly as if we had been
rehearsing all our lives.

In the years since, it is not the day or date that disturbs me but the
lengthening of the day and the evening light of early summer.

As the days lengthen and the years pass, the space for grief seemed to shrink but
somehow fresh hurts and remembrance of a mourning trinity in the slanted spring light
brings to mind a poem that brought tears to her eyes and gave me just a glimpse
of something in her soul I had never imagined.


Sacrament

You, pictured for ever, before me;
I stand in black and wear a white
carnation; you, holding an array
of golden roses, maidenhair, smile up
at me and you are beautiful; your body
washed for me and gently scented;
you, set apart in white, a mystery,
all sacred;
we are holding hands for ever,
dedicated; such the signs of a deep
abiding grace.

Another image
graven on my mind; you lie, again
in white; on your breast a silken
picture of the Virgin; they have washed
your body, closed your eyes, you hold
no flowers; vein-blue traces
of suffering on your skin, your fingers
locked together, away from me.

But it is I who loved you, known
the deepest secrets of your grace; I take
the golden ring from your finger; I kiss
the bride,

and they close the heavy doors
against me, of that silent, vast cathedral.


John F. Deane (from Winter in Meath, Dedalus Press, 1985)