The climb through meandering rocky paths
In open sandals for forty days ˗
Who does that? And why?
I ask siting in his rose patterned wing back chair,
Now my chair.
Here, I expect messages of consolation.
The dark nights of the soul on sunny mornings
Can’t get beyond the desolate brown hills
Without greenery –
Even my green walls give a sense of serenity
But the image on the projector screen in the bare church hall,
Of the Wanderer,
Does not give comfort – only questioning….
Oh, these days we are far more enlightened ˗
Who quotes passages from that ancient book?
And aren’t there many ancient books?
Though most ˗ in the Land of White ˗
Believe in only the one ancient book
Written by ancient people, but with divine inspiration:
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
Those in the know, say all that writing is poppycock because
As creative beings in the here and now, we are privy to scholarly and intuitive insight:
In the beginning was the Big Bang – which came out of what? Nothingness?
These day, we don’t talk god stuff –
Even when we contemplate with like minded folk, in the know ˗
God words are taboo.
Science has taught us to see the Universe,
Not just the Wanderer on rocky paths in an ancient story.
Talk of god is off-limits,
Reminding of church and institutions
And dark sermons on sin, hell, fire and damnation –
And memories of nuns with straps curbing any questioning.
Yet, sitting in my rose patterned wing back chair
I do little more than question ˗ and contemplate
About the massive rough-hewn cross
Standing at the front of the sanctuary
Draped in black on the day that marks his death.
Each good Friday,
I used to say to Husband the Minister
Get off your cross, it’s been done!
And I remember those words,
Maybe blasphemous –
As I sit in his rose patterned wing back chair
Wondering if he too is wandering
Through meandering rocky paths,
In open sandals.