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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