The coo of pigeons calls me back
to leaf mould damp
and watered sun
that glistens on the turning leaves
of childhood memory
where lone I walk through time.
I see the lithesome hips of rose;
a blackbird poised
on rusted rail of iron
entwined with old man's beard;
and bones long gone.
The church bell chimes.
The hour of evensong has come.
I kneel
and peep between the steeple of my hands
at sandstone arches stained
by saints in glowing robes
whose scarlet hues and sad eyes fall
on chiselled names of those
who passed this way before.
The Advent candle flickers
in the fading light of day,
a rose-rimmed eye that blinks
and forces out a waxen tear
for those, my kin, who died.
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Author Notes
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
On Gaudete Sunday, also known as "Rose Sunday", a rose-coloured candle is lit. It is the Third Sunday in Advent and falls in mid-December close to my birthday and that of Jesus Christ. It is a time both of joy and repentance. I know this, because my grandfather, who was a country vicar, lies buried in this churchyard - the one in my mind's eye.
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