The Wordless Hymn

I have been teaching teachers,
And I have felt sick of heart
At what is involved
In the relationships
Existing in such meetings
In myself and others.

The only relief
In this darkness
Is in the humility
I might find through
My feelings of inadequacy
And failure.

And I walked out into the woods,
And stood among the trees,
Looking upon the beauty of the scene.
A carpet of yellow flowers
Had arisen among the tree roots.
I do not know the name of them,
Only their yellow cups and greenness.

And in the midst of the scene
A large enamelled oven,
Shining in the sun,
Exciting in its endless forms
As my child mind
Saw it as a cave,
A tank, and an aeroplane.

An old rusty bike,
Bedsprings,
A broken pushchair,
Grew there too.
Plastic bags were being cherished
By the earth and leaves;
Whether drawn in
By the earth’s passion for them,
Or whether they themselves
Sought this deeper communion
With the soil, I know not.
But the ants and worms
Found wonders in them.
There were scraps of food,
Intricate corners, and spiders.

And I walked on past the scene
To a village church,
Quiet and full of past worship.
I entered with reverence
To spend a silent moment there.
But the voice of rebellion in me
Cried out over my reverence.
“Why sit here in this
Empty joyless place?” it said.
“Can?t you hear where the
Hymns are being sung?
Listen!”

And the hundred songs of birds
Came to me in that
Empty silent brick house.
A tractor added its chorus to the song.
Cars hummed a background.
Somewhere a man hammered,
A cock crowed and a dog barked.
There was the rhythm of footsteps
As people walked by,
And the whole grand medley
Was the hymn of life.

Leaving the building
I added the quiet sound
Of my own walking and breathing
To the grand song.
Now I too would sing on.

Copyright ©2007 Tony Crisp