The Darkness. 

Sunday morning: sitting 
Unbelieving in the church,
Disappearing with echoes 
Of the psalm. 
No one sees you leaving 
The shadows of your hurt: 
Confessions 
Of stigmata on your palms. 

And in the air-raid shelter 
At the bottom of the garden, 
You keep your summer smile
'Til winter is done.  
And if what has gone before 
Comes unthinkably around once more,
Prepare a beacon,
For the dreamers and the drunks, 
When the darkness comes.

Seeing your reflection 
Hold out handfuls of yourself,
Each single piece unbroken: 
Never whole.
Teased apart by ghosts, 
Laying in wait behind pretence: 
White wraiths praying in the cold. 

And in the air-raid shelter 
At the bottom of the garden, 
You keep your summer smile
'Til winter is done.  
And if what has gone before 
Comes unthinkably around once more,
Prepare a beacon,
For the dreamers and the drunks, 
When the darkness comes.

But here, now,
Step out into the light and see 
The shadows: only sunlight's daughters,
Waiting for the clouds to break. 
And here, now, 
Be calm of heart with eyes ablaze,  
When the darkness comes again. 

Reach across the chasm 
Without fear that you'll collapse, 
Feel cruel time falling past.
Let the abyss become a crack, 
In turn a fracture that is healing,
Break your convent silence with a laugh. 


And in the air-raid shelter 
At the bottom of the garden, 
You keep your summer smile
'Til winter is done.  
And if what has gone before 
Comes unthinkably around once more,
Prepare a beacon,
For the dreamers and the drunks, 
When the darkness comes.