We choose God
Nos Eligimus Deum
We choose you as an act of will.
Though emotions surge and crash
and grey grim fears run wild.
Though our reason screams out “rubbish”
and all strength has slipped away
Though dark thoughts block out the sun
and deep despair devours all hope.
Though belief’s an empty dream,
Past joy a broken shard.
Yet we still choose to struggle on
For you said you would complete in us
The good work you have begun.
Therefore we choose to trust in you.
Not with faith we summon up
Or fantasize in fear.
Not by recalling lost memory
Past blessing, easier days.
Not the painted happiness
That masks deep pain with practiced smile.
Not quelling doubts with doctrine
Or cursing soul’s dark night.
But because you cannot alter
Your self’s deep faithfulness to us
Though we fail, stumble, falter.
Therefore we choose to worship you
Though throats are dry and swollen,
Eyes misted with our tears.
Though words are mere muttered fragments
To be heard by none but you.
Though a voice says “It’s futile!
No point in endless struggling on”
Though days, weeks, months are dreary
And sorrow fills each dark
Yet faithfulness beyond our sight
And grace that holds us on till morning
Will bring us to joy in light.
January 2025
Years ago I told the story of my coming to faith in French. (certainly couldn't do it now! ) I quoted a popular Christian song - "Ma vie est remli des roses" - "My life is full of roses" - but said that roses have thorns. Sometimes we have to deliberately hold on, relying on the faithfulness of an unchanging God and not on our own faith
Choosing music after cataract surgery
What music for a summer Saturday
evening? A glass (or three) of gascon wine,
Garden now greener, brighter, more defined
Clarity.
Symphony? Too complex. Concerto? Too
adversarial. Romantic? But dark
shades, half tones suggesting loss, not gain.
Ambiguity
Solo voice? Yearning, seeking. I don’t need
high emotion, Just a sense of storm past
unusual in simple melodies of folk
hilarity.
Something structured. Joyous, predictable
Harmonic proof that music, optics, peace
Pattern deep order. Allegro. Baroque.
Vivaldi.
24/6/23
Written the day after my first cataract operation. It came to me as I was selecting a CD to play with our meal : something that echoed the new sharpness of vision emerging in the operated eye that was at the same time structured and calming.
Cycle ride in Covid spring
“Only go outside for food, health reasons or work”
Roads run strangely silent under March spring’s blue sky
Bright sun but the air holds winter chill
Fields that should be inches high with green
Sodden, threaten summer will have to pass them by.
Isolated driver too fast to see a face
(Why rush? Home’s the only place to go)
Cyclist passes me the other way
Raised hand, “Hello” across at least two metres space.
Across the low hedge, slow sailing the field’s brown sea
Red tractor, hopper full of seed
Precision planting hopeful earth
Harvest promise for when this spring is memory.
It is hard to believe that 5 years ago we had been in lockdown for weeks. In March 2020 (after a very wet winter) I went for a bile ride just after lockdown started and wrote this, the first of a series of poems following the progress of the pandemic and one particular field of wheat which was just being sown as I came towards home.
The Embroidery
“Courage is not simply one of the virtues but the form of every virtue at the testing point”
C. S. Lewis
Rainbow vibrant, scattering bright sunlight
Colours of cardinal virtues captured
Deft needles made design reality
Embroidered beauty of true humanity.
Green generosity, pure love’s deep red
White humility, self-control’s bright gold
Cerise gratitude, diligence is blue
Quiet brown patience awaiting all things new.
Unseen beneath gorgeous flare of colour
Grey canvas holds the many threads in place
No thought given by the admiring crowd
This fabric does not speak its name aloud.
But without it no virtue will stand test
Staunch courage gives its form to all the rest.
May 2024
Shepherd on Friday
The fields are quieter now
The yearling lambs gone for sacrifice
So now I rest beneath the olive tree
As the spring sky drifts above
But why this mid day dark?
The call of songbirds sudden stilled
I am afraid for the huddled sheep
As the black sky covers all
It lasts for three long hours
Like no eclipse I have heard of
And when the light at long last returns
It seems something is now gone
And now I mind another darkened sky
Cold in the fields, huddling round the fire
The safe sheep stir softly in the fold
Waiting for the new sun’s light
And how at once the silence broke
The flash of light, the angel’s voice
The amazing message from the Lord
Of goodwill to favoured men.
I recall the way we all rushed down
To the sleeping little town below
The flickering flame of oil lamps
And the baby lying there.
And in that babe it seemed
All hope, all peace was won
I often wonder to myself
What on earth became of him.
.
Park Run
The lean lithe club runners for whom 5k
Is merely light relief on Saturday
The unfit overweight who simply just
Long to lose pounds because they know they must
The young, the old, the work-worn middle aged
School children who have all week been caged
First timers worrying “Will I get around?”
Regulars well knowing familiar ground
Sleek buggies powered by long limbed super mums
Dogs who secret think this is no real run.
We clap the volunteers and visitors
Who add to their collection this flat course.
“Let’s run’” The surge across to starting line.
“Hi there! Good luck! Run well! You’ll be just fine”
The countdown from three ends in a scuff
Eight hundred coloured trainers pounding off.
Legs stretching to their full potential length
(should training have improved their latent strength).
Adjustment jostle round the path side seat
The slow fall back, the fit are running fleet.
Across the narrow bridge the dense crowd thins
As now for some the serious run begins.
Others regret their all too fast a start
And briefly fear for their too flabby heart.
The back straight now, carefully avoiding those
Who walk contrary wise and seem to doze.
Through wooded glade. No slippery leaves
Excuse a pause to any whose chest heaves.
Then narrow path where some first feel a stitch
Others go wide, risk falling in a ditch.
And now lap two. The thundering herd
Sweep by fluorescent marshals who applaud
And then prepare, for in twelve minutes time
The swiftest will approach the finish line
While the rest, mere mortals, keep up the slog
Some run, some walk, some manage a slow jog.
So what? This is meant to be at least some fun
Summer Saturday warmed by morning sun
Though some now think that stopping’s best of all
Like ceasing to bang head against brick wall
Lap three. And now the faster overtake
Those slower souls who’ve not yet passed the lake.
They too are still giving it their best
Though moist of brow and sweaty under vest
Last time through woodland and the welcome turn
Homewards tired as legs, once just aching, burn.
Slight downhill gives last chance to quicken stride
A final burst of speed at least is tried
At last the funnel’s final fond embrace
Past the timer and we can slacken pace.
The plastic token is in order given
We stop, gasp and enter Park Run heaven.
Park Run is a great way to start a Saturday morning -i f it's a fine summer day ! My local one is in Lincoln: three times round the lake and through the woods. They always say it's not a race but you can't help wanting to achieve a new Personal Best (or - as I'll never be 15 years younger than now - at least a "Best this year")