Mary’s son
holds
a golden sphere –
the world
in pure light.
Past, present and future –
poised
in the palm of his hand.

Mary’s son
holds
the Light
that was before
the light –
the Light
that was before
Mary –
but not before
her son.

Mary’s son
lifts the golden sphere
and throws it at the dark.
‘Look,’ he cries.
‘Now
All is Light.’

Contained in flesh
are we?
No. No!
Contained in the unimaginable
sphere of God’s love.
No small thing
our cares, our fears
until touched
by this touch.
This key
turns us from our fears
and turning
frees us.
Now we know
that we are known…
and cared for.

Small are we?
No. No!
Each fills the universe,
for each the universe
is there.
Now we feel it.
Now we abandon
doubt
and jettison
despair.

Touching this icon
flesh dissolves
and our true containment
contains us.
What was great to us before
now shrinks
and the small and disregarded seed,
the secret and abiding
meaning of our lives,
expands.
With God’s all-seeing eye
we see
and seeing
know.
In His hands
we rest
and in His heart
are blessed.

The dangerous seeing eye
is poised to strike at darkness.
No mild recognition,
but terror,
as meaning leaps to meaning
like lightning on iron mountains.
   Words slit
   in revelation.
The crust of long-accustomed thought
   shatters
and an unfamiliar landscape
   is revealed.

Published in The William Blake Birthday Book (ISBN 9780956199904)

LIFE STORY

Life is woven out of stories…
warp and weft
the threads interplay
and interact.

Mind stories
lying in bed at night
reshaping the day’s events…
reading…
listening…
watching…

Stories shape and colour
the fabric of our dreams and memories.
Words and images
flux and flow…
change… reform…
and give illusion of reality.

Who can unpick the threads
and know
where we begin
or end?

(a poem Moyra wrote in 1946)

The bank has gone insolvent
and is closing now.
The heavy brass doors shut.
The people shout in vain
against the pillrs of the vestibule.
The gods are sending out the bills and we can’t pay.
Too late we see
it was a false invenstment.
We stand
and stare at the bills
and the shut doors
of the bank.

A poem from The Breathless Pause by Moyra Caldecott

The anniversary of a death

Trying to reconstruct a person
on the anniversary of his death
you must enter
the labyrinth of memory
with its twisting
and its turning,
its sudden shocks,
its false starts
and its blind alleys,
and its sudden revelations
of what you did not know you knew.

Someone emerges
from the shadows,
familiar,
yet unfamiliar…
substantial
yet unsubstantial.
Fading fast
leaving an ache behind…
and a question:
Did you ever really know him?

Moyra at St James Wine Vaults, Bath

A poem by Moyra Caldecott, from The Breathless Pause:

While I was wasting the day

While I was wasting the day
the grass was growing,
daisies opening,
sunflowers
pushing up tall stems.

While I was wasting the day
the bee pushed its way
into a hundred foxgloves
and went home tired.

Now the light fades.
The rain wets my hair.
I smell honey suckle and musk rose
and take a deep breath
for tomorrow.

A poem by Moyra Caldecott, from The Breathless Pause:

The net of pearls

Reality is not a straight line
from past to future
through the present…
but a network
of inter connections
going every which way.
When we recognise
the nodes
sitting in a garden at dawn,
watching little finches,
or flowers opening,
a pearl is formed
and shines
even in the night
when we are lonely
and far from home.

A poem by Moyra Caldecott, from The Breathless Pause.

Leaving the pond
and the gentle water weeds
a swan rode the ocean.
At first,
because it was evening
and mirror still,
not knowing
the fathoms
of deep and restless currents
stirring beneath
its poised white weight,
it rested easily,
on smooth silver.

But then -
slowly -
it began to feel
the pull and tug of the tide,
the unfamiliar hidden strength
and secret power of the sea.
No longer resting,
it rode the water
like a challenge,
rejoiced to feel
the primal rhythm coursing
in its own small veins.

No longer satisfied
with pools
of still water,
the swan rode on,
and never left the sea.