It is dark outside,
as we sit in
a small front room,
curtains drawn
against the winter cold…
…their friend,
teacher, and leader
is gone,
… I feel their grief,
although
I cannot plumb the
depths
of it, until I realise
there is more than one
loss here…
they begin to speak
of days gone by,
of Sunday Schools,
and trips,
of Eisteddfod's,
and Harvests
filled with people
and produce….
they remember singing
hymns into the night,
and how caroling was the highlight
of their Christmas times,
they remember when the Chapel
was the centre of village life,
respected,
and loved….
And now this death highlights their pain,
for they are in a strange land,
and their songs seem dimmed somehow…
…unspoken questions
fill the silent spaces,
and hang in the air
like cigarette smoke,
outlawed, and unwelcome…
And I wonder
how we can travel together
to a place,
where tears may flow
unchecked for a while,
and their questions are heard…
…where together we
open the curtains
upon this strange,
familiar, land..
to learn a anew the song
whose strain
will never ebb,
or die,
the song known by
stars and mountains,
older than time itself,
yet new,
renewed
transformed….
