Wednesday, May 3, 2017

So it is necessary to carry him with us (Rowan Williams)


  First the sun, then the shadow, 
so that I screw my eyes to see 
my friend’s face, and its lines seem 
different, and the voice shakes in the hot air. 
Out of the rising white dust, feet 
tread a shape, and out of step, 
another flat sound, stamped between voice 
and ears, dancing in the gaps, and dodging 
where words and feet do not fall. 
                        
When our eyes meet, I see bewilderment 
(like mine); we cannot learn 
this rhythm we are asked to walk, 
and what we hear is not each other. 
Between us is filled up, the silence 
is filled up, lines of our hands 
and faces pushed into shape 
by the solid stranger, and the static 
breaks up our waves like dropped stones. 
                        
So it is necessary to carry him with us, 
cupped between hands and profiles, 
so that the table is filled up, and as 
the food is set and the first wine splashes,
a solid thumb and finger tear the thunderous 
grey bread.  Now it is cold, even indoors; 
and the light falls sharply on our bones; 
the rain breathes out hard, dust blackens, 
and our released voices shine with water. 

--Emmaus, Rowan Williams, theologian 
and former Archbishop of Canterbury

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