Poems by Sue Lewis
| Journey |
| Kenosis |
| Confessional |
Journey
Useful directions, so you tell me,
depend upon the starting point.
I must begin again.
Each turning that we take
depends on so much else:
how choices race towards us
while we're all mis-reading maps;
how precious things
get left behind.
How soon the soft young
green of summer withers;
how the rain mists up the view.
How, when you drive out
from the centre of a starry sky,
you hold your breath against
the cold of winter coming.
And how the cat's-eye of a
crescent moon, carved radish-thin,
will sometimes serve to light you
when you lose your way.
Go back and start again.
Take nothing with you
but the burden of your loving.
Carry it with care and, this time,
do not put it down.
Kenosis
Helen: I went everywhere,
tried to make amends. I offered incense
to the Buddha and Guan-yin, slipped silent
into empty churches, sat alone in
tall cathedrals with their jewelled windows,
whispering floors. Stooped and lit so many
tiny candles for you, Helen, fumbling and inept.
Small flames were trembling smoky-yellow
throughout England. Other places too:
Jerusalem – the Wailing Wall – I stood
like an impostor with the women dressed in black
and pushed my scribbled prayer into the rock.
The Holy Sepulchre, I queued for half an hour
to kiss what must be kissed, then dizzy,
went outside and breathed the sunlight in.
Oh please, God. Please.
It made no difference.
The only answer to a prayer
is something we've already guessed.
Confessional
One hot and hollow day
let's take our skeletons to lunch –
I'll meet you by the Tube.
Blackening clouds, a sudden downpour:
intoxicating dark-earth scent
will rise from dust-dry pavements.
Sit with me. We'll share the wine.
Candles will bend forward to listen
though they've heard it all before.
Let's leave our shriven bones
inside that wine-dark cave.
Libate the final dregs.
Walk out to daylight and
a fresh breeze from the Thames.
Above us now, this clearing sky.