Reading The Confessor in the Cathedral Crypt

I had a retreat day in Worcester before Christmas, and spent some time reading my favourite 7th Century theologian (everyone has one right?!) in the cathedral crypt which felt very fitting.

I’ve read his works in countless different places –
the library, in my office, in the woods,
on small Pacific islands. My bookcases
are interwoven with his every word.
For fifteen years he’s been my mind’s companion,
I’ve written, preached, prayed, studied, questioned, learned.
His deep reflective faith has been a lantern
Illuminating my own faith in turn
But somehow, here, today, among the ancient
prayer-soaked stones of this cathedral crypt,
beneath the hum of advent preparations,
his ancient prayer-soaked words perfectly fit.
I find myself held out of time and space
reading St Maximus in this holy place.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2026

Otter, Other.

I saw a shadow in the rippling water,
a darkening of already darkened flow.
Beneath the bridge, like fabled troll, I caught a
glimpse of muscled tail – a glancing blow
upon the river surface was sufficient
to send her soaring swiftly to the depths,
and yet in that brief flash of recognition
came certainty she could be nothing else.
I stood and watched, expectant, as the current
hurried past the spot where she had been,
but, despite my lingering gaze, the torrent
scrubbed the channel’s wild remembrance clean.
At last my eye was caught by more prosaic duck and drake,
leaving Otter, utterly Other, hidden in their wake.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2026

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