Frances, this morning,
buttercup dust on our sandals,
we drift back from early walks,
bring roses in long briars,
foxglove, bedstraw, meadowsweet,
cow parsley, ragged robin.
The mist is off the fields. Swifts
spin their shrill litanies.
Under the barn’s beaten silver
incense of cut grass, creosote,
the sun’s mat at the door.
We bring our privacies.
Rough table. Circle of chairs.
A heel of granary loaf.
Wine over from last night’s supper.
A leather book. Luke. Romans.
Corinthians. Silences.
A congregation of eight.
The lapsed, the doubting, those
here for the first time, others
regular at named churches
share the meaning of breaking bread,
of sipping from one glass,
of naming you.
Mass of the birds. A blackbird calls,
a wren responds, calling, answering
what we can only feel.
We offer this as the sun
raises its wafer too brilliant
to look at or understand.
Do you remember the elder
that was sick to death last year,
all skin and bone in the arms
of a rambling rose? This year
it flourishes, grows green,
supports the rose.
By Gillian Clarke
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Side note: The annual Eurovision Song Contest grand finale post will be published on Saturday 18th May.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 