Creative Works
A bit like Tai Chi
The sea moves rhythmically
Ebbing and flowing
Saint Clare
Our house in Assisi had two doors –
One at the front. One at the back,
Small and narrow we called the door of the dead.
I nearly died when I saw them carry grandfather away,
Down that long dark passageway.
I really died when I braved my soul’s dark night,
And fled towards the light.
I let go of my father’s holding hand,
And bequeathed my persona and my pedigree,
to him and his noble family.
Defiant, elated I reached the door.
Compliant, deflated I found it barred and bolted.
I pushed back the bolt – pushed open the door –
stepped into the square to see my cousin waiting there.
Like freed rabbits we ran, we ran together
past dreaming olive trees, leaves gleaming
n the moonlight, to a tiny wooden chapel,
where Francis and his brothers were waiting.
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