I Found A Stick
———————–
While walking in the woods below the Edge
I found a stick blown down by last night’s storm.
I wasn’t looking for it, but was drawn
along a winding path which led me to
a pair of Birch trees, standing guard beside
a Chestnut. It was from one of these trees
that my particular stick had once been part
before Storm Francis (we’ll return to that)
had sent it tumbling wildly to the ground.
I picked it up and weighed it in my hand
then with my penknife rounded off the ends
which had been damaged by its recent fall.
The bark that clothed my stick, which on first glance
looked just like any other stick, now shone
with colour: green and white and bronze and more
whose names I do not know, if they have names
at all. If this were in a gallery
it would be honoured as a masterpiece
but it was simply on a winding path
beneath the Edge, where none but me passed by.
St Francis, after whom the storm was named,
(or not, I do not know) taught us to see
our fellow creatures as God’s children too,
with whom we share this wild and winding world.
And so as I walked home I held my stick,
a masterpiece of colour, shape and form,
thankful that I’d been blessed to receive
a gift from Sister Birch and Brother Wind.

Rich Clarkson, August 2020

It has been the strangest of Holy Weeks, with no services and no gatherings.  However this unexpected interruption has left time and space for noticing and contemplating the beauty of nature.  One thing that struck me today was that, as the hedgerows begin to fill with greenery, the hawthorns are the first to blossom seasoning the hedgerows with beautiful white flowers.  The contrast of flower and thorn resonated with our Easter celebrations and gave rise to this poem/song.

As a strange and unseen shadow slowly spreads
Encircling our lives with its fierce thorns
And pinning down our plans with its dark threads
The hawthorn in the hedgerow blooms with beauty

As pandemic presses pause on our affection
Keeping us away from those we love
And though painful separation means protection
The hawthorn in the hedgerow blooms with beauty

And in this moment of great dislocation
Where normal life has been turned on its head
Our minds turn to another separation
While the hawthorn in the hedgerow blooms with beauty

As darkness fell and fierce thorns decorated
As separation drew both blood and tears
He who is love, in love was isolated
And the hawthorn in the hedgerow blooms with beauty

Yet in those empty days of fear and sorrow
Where hope felt frail, another unexpected
Emptiness gave hope for all tomorrows
And the hawthorn in the hedgerow blooms with beauty

As the hawthorn in the hedgerow blooms with beauty
And the bright sun rises on another day
We find new strength in knowing absolutely
That even in the thorns life and love will always find a way

(c) Rich Clarkson 2020

It is a gift, a rare and precious blessing,
To craft a sacred space in which to share
The honesty of wisdom, forged and tested
A place where words are weighed and wrought with care
Where sentences are drawn from deepest waters
Carrying the weight of all that is
Holding on to hope amidst the darkness
Trusting in the truthfulness of tears
Yet in this fractured world such fragile spaces,
Whose making – and whose keeping – is an art,
Must be carved out, defended, lest their traces
Fade from memory, from mind, from heart.
In holding nothing back we are revealing
Our truest self, and all the world finds healing

A poem for Christmas Night

I

“O come, o come Immanuel” we sing
as winter’s shroud envelops land and sky
squeezing days to ever shortening hours
injecting darkness into watchful eyes.

As night falls ever earlier we wait
for that first glimmer of the coming dawn
a distant hope, a flickering hope, but hope
it is and hope sustains and we go on.

Last week I watched a nuthatch on the drive
as carefully it broke the puddle’s skin
and, wary of the dangers all around,
it found refreshment, cleansing, hope within.

Even in the darkness and the frost
Hope is not lost.

II

“O come, o come Immanuel” they sang
The still, small voice of God so hard to hear
above the chaos of a noisy world
and so they cried out “God, our God, come near”

The promise of the prophets long ago
was of a saviour, of a prince, a king
and though the centuries had passed in silence
still “O come, immanuel” they’d sing.

And in that darkness, in that silent night
where many hoped, but few truly believed
God did come near.  Immanuel, God with us.
In fragile child this earth her God received.

Even in the silence and the doubt
Hope still shines out

III

So now we stand and wait in this dark night
adding our voices to that holy chorus
crying out for God, our God to come
as he once came to those who’ve gone before us.

We harken to the angels song, we lay
our gifts, our lives, before the lowly manger
And in this night, this holy night, we know
that God, our God, is no longer a stranger

In Bethlehem so many years ago
Earth’s fragile skin was pierced as Heaven came
And if we, on this night, will let him in
then God, our God, will be with us again

Even in our hearts and in our lives
Hope, the hope that God is with us, thrives

If we are called to change the world we must
Know what it is that we are called to change
If we’re to challenge that which is unjust
Then we must let ourselves be rearranged
The stories of our faith must be passed on
Proclaimed afresh to each new generation
But in a world where so much has gone wrong
Those ancient stories need a new narration
God made the world with loving care and we
With love and care must also play our part
Holding creation in integrity
Healing broken land and broken hearts
In what we do and say and sing and preach
This is the tale of hope which we must teach

Rich Clarkson 2019