Summoned to the bedside of the dying,
I slip into a house where every room
is heavy with grief’s incense. This is not
my first time through this door, just weeks ago
I sat in this front room, listening and praying,
anticipating all that was to come,
that is now here.  What can I do but sit
here listening and praying once again.

I pull out of my pocket a small jar
of oil and take those still warm hands in mine:
“Lord lettest now thy servant depart in peace.”
The fragrance of the oil anoints the air
as I depart, leaving transfigured grief.

Unsure of what to do I make my way
uphill, to find a churchyard bench where I
release the breath I hadn’t realised I’d
been holding in.  I sit and watch three birds
who circle gently in the distance over
that same house which I had visited
and then, as I watch on, they make their way
towards me, and beyond, and out of sight.

“You cannot bear this weight in your own strength.”
Those ordination words come to my mind
and I find comfort in the thought. I watch
a buzzard spiral upwards, hear the breeze
flow through the bracken, watch the ants at work,
and place myself within the larger whole
of God’s creation, full of grief, and joy,
and life, and death, and life. And in my hand
I feel again the little jar of oil,
still warm and fragrant, like the tears that fall.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2026

Picture by Pavlo Semeniuk on Unsplash