Turning
And a Voice beat more instant than the Feet – Francis Thompson
In the bedrock of creation where he breathes
(his sleep and slumber, wakefulness, sustain
the turning worlds) he hollowed out a chapel,
just a cave, a single candle burning
at the back, and settled down to pray
for me, whom he had formed from clay, for me
whose borrowed breath is his. He settled down
to wait; he’d done all else – the voice, the beat
of instant feet, the chase, the dance, the clowning
on the water, and the charm of breath
in flute; the stories and the jokes. Without
expecting or rejecting me he sat
and waited. Either I would turn, and kneel
to wash their feet, or I’d turn away.
I’d turn to crucifixes, and east windows,
prayer; I’d turn to books and learning; then
if all distractions failed to suffice
I’d take my accustomed whip: self-flagellation
(the endless chasing of my tail, guilt’s
second helpings), the surest way to spill
his gift of wine from this earthen cup.
I’ve heard the voice, the beat of dancing feet;
I’ve glimpsed the charmer on the water; I sat
once at his table, tasted meat. And now,
I sit and look at these lined hands, forlorn,
and analyse what keeps feet dirty. A shadow
falls on them: he’s kneeling at my feet.
If I let the water touch me I’ll be free.
Chris Fewings
Photo by Samuel Lima