Cross

Out of his anguish he shall see light; he shall find satisfaction through his knowledge. The righteous one, my servant, shall make many righteous, and he shall bear their iniquities.
Isaiah 53:11
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A glimpse of wading birds
was stitching ripples on the silvered water
as he crossed to Hobthrush, Cuthbert's island.
The cuddy ducks had vanished with the tide.
Five days past Easter, daffodils
were wilting at the cross's foot.
Then sun came up like sudden trumpets.
A train ran south to cities, parishes,
a distant dragon-snake
embellishing a carpet-page of fields.
Its wheelsound reached him twenty seconds after
it had gone. As had the godwits. Wavelets
whispered their reconquest of the bladderwrack.
The early-service bell rang out on rising air.
 
The Scripture was "The valley of dry bones".
 
(Cuthbert laboured long and endured much. By his death in 687, the church in the North was firmly founded.)
 
 
 
Poem (c) Vince Gilbert

 

 

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