Abstract

The Annunciation: a spring hailstorm
(in memoriam MLH 2011–15) It was sudden, this hail, shrouding Spring fields white as pain; a shock, a sting, Winter again? No, rather, hope reborn; a clean shift; newness; a fresh leaf – on blackthorn – turning history’s drift with a word we could not guess: this maiden’s, simple, shining, solid ‘Yes.’
© Laurentia Johns OSB
He is risen
I went seeking Byland but found instead two deer leaping – twin alleluias – full of grace and almost asking: ‘Why seek the living among the dead?’
Rite of spring
And then, onto this almost finished canvas flew swallows, as if to dot the ‘i’ and cross the ‘t’ of victory, your finished symphony. What do they bring to this rite of spring that hasn’t now been said in the Father’s serene brightness, and the Son’s new greenness? Perhaps, the Holy Spirit’s quickness that marks the difference ‘twixt living and dead.
Last post
(in memoriam AJ & JAJ)
Just last week they were there, a purple-headed troop, a quiet triumph of the forest floor, a rising fifth piercing the air in plain, arresting beauty; square-stemmed, labiate. Could it be Ground Ivy? I looked it up – didn’t google – the white-striped lip removed all doubt: this was a clump of Bugle, churned up now by clumsy diggers’ jaws so the blooms lie dead in rows, like Graves’ remembered heroes, recorded here as more than vegetation: a very present absence, hope’s registration.
