Another poem inspired by my recent visit to the Anglican Church of Melanesia. This is based on a conversation I had with a student at the Bishop Patteson Theological College outside their college library.

“The birds around here speak sometimes”, he said,
“the smallish brown ones with the yellow eyes.
You have to pay attention though, they spread
their mottled wings, glance back, say their goodbyes
and then before you know it they have gone,
packed up their conversation and moved on.”

“We used to have a bishop here,” he said,
“who was well known for talking to the birds
and other creatures.  Once the rats all fled
from the cassava patch at just a word
from Bishop Fox.  His grave is over there.
It’s said the birds still join with him in prayer.”

I tried to pay attention like he said,
but though I watched and listened for a week,
I talked to them, sang songs, and shared my bread,
I never once did hear the Myna speak.
Beside the Charles Fox library, filled with words,
I sit in silence, praying with the birds.

(c) Rich Clarkson, 2025