We were invited to the ‘Peace’,
an evening picnic in the grove.
Friends gathered under the trees
sensing a strange sombreness.
Reaching up to the branches,
too early, no fruit on the trees.
We ate the last year’s harvest
with home made barley cakes,
under the silver and the green
rustled by the evening breeze,
to cool an oppressive day.
Clay lamps of oil were lighted
as the day descended into dusk.
Among the flickering flames,
incense and the dancing shadows
the perfumed air helped us
to relax and leave our fears behind.
But the partial peace was shattered
as an unwelcome crowd pressed our space.
One whom we had missed
stepped forward from the mob
and with a knowing nod reached up
and greeted the One with a kiss
as was his manner and his way.
The look of recognition, a smile
and with resignation turned,
knowing well this need to be.
Against our wish and protest
the One, to us, was led away.
Despite the further feats and fears
of followers and friends
there was nothing more to do.
To bear the anguish and the pain,
for all who’d become one with him,
was all there was, with sighs and tears.
He was taken away, tied and tried,
scourged, hammered and hoisted high
then hung till fading day was nigh.
Time as ever was flying fast,
although it seemed eternity,
asking to take him to burial,
sure he was gone, though fast.
All had to be cut short at the last,
in the grey twilight he was pierced
to make quite sure of his passing
and in the following deluge
as heaven bathed his blooded body
he was taken down in haste
and given over to the two,
who stood in woe and widows weeds
to find a final place of resting.
Helpers took him in the same direction
as the garden of peace and remembrance.
All was quiet save the sobs that night,
even the deep moaning from the earth
if you could feel it, sense it, hear it.
But in the silence, apart from murmurs,
the night was long, as those with the gift
worked until the mystic moon
was long since gone, giving way
to silver and to purple clouds.
The ways of scribing and chanting,
praying and pleading.
Then healing with hands
took their tender time.
The wounds were closed
bathed again and bound,
the process of restoration had begun.
As the long night passed
the cold red dawn began to break.
Knowing not of this activity,
little sleep, but risen early,
gathered cloth with oils and herbs,
made her way to the garden.
Pulling her shawl about her, she went
to perform her last loving task.
But this was not as she’d been told
the garden changed, not new but old.
She was worried and confused to find
the space was open, clean and free,
never used and left as subterfuge,
for others to find and satisfy.
She sat among the dry brown grass
as herbs and oils all tumbled to the ground.
Where could he be she wondered,
as all came out of focus in her tears
she buried her face in his cloth.
She remembered his teaching:
Those times when he had taught
his friends the mystic art.
She wondered, and wondered
yet again, if it was possible.
Yet there was a feeling deep inside
that brought an inner knowing,
that he was there, somewhere,
she could only rest with that
and patiently wait.
Wait for news,
knowing that someone would come.
While the secret few, the only ones
who knew for sure, with touch
could sense the pulse of life,
had worked and prayed all night.
This ritual continued every day
within the cool caves of healing.
All the while the face was unseen
he had returned to his own
as many came and went
in robes of white
until his light
But he could not be seen
he could not be recognised
even by his own,
his task was done.
When strength had returned
he was well wrapped
in paupers grey
to hide within the shadows,
and taken by the night
to pastures strange and new,
where she with secret few
were finally told to wait.
They waited and they prayed.
She remembered:
When he was with us
orders were unknown,
but offerings were made
of love, comfort and healing.
Such selflessness and concern,
such kindness was never known.
Would she ever know those moments again
would she ever hear his soft voice
or his reassuring touch,
her hands within his hands.
What did he call it ?
Ah yes, ‘Namaste’.
Memories were her companions now
and in fitful sleep …
waking at the slightest sound …
dreams brought hopes to life.
Fear, the stuff of nightmares
invaded day dreams too.
The frequent thought occurred:
‘Did she have a right to hope ?’
When everyone said otherwise.
Those special moments told her, ‘Yes!’.
When he had led the way –
to mystic mountains
through myriad meditations.
Opening the doors and portals
to marbled halls of wisdom.
Of magical memories of the earth,
bringing future, past and present into one,
into the moment, the present moment.
In the presence of the Logos,
the Word, the Only One.
What could she do but wait ?
Giving all to the Only One.


About David

Devonian writer
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