Anthony Thwaite

Anthony Thwaite

 

Water under the bridge-dead metaphor
Lifted from somewhere, left to lie 
Stiff on the page. Yet now it comes to life 
Simply by being written down, repeated
Like something in the liturgy, words chanted
And echoing down the old cold labyrinths.
I pick them up and warm them on my tongue 
Bringing back all that happened long ago
And flowed away, yet also can be seen
Far down under the parapets, going on,
Not to be stopped or hindered, staying there
In bits and pieces, shatterings and sherds,
Not to be joined together and made wholeBut water under the bridge, still flowing on.

 

 

Why was he here
Filling the room
With light, and fear
Filling her womb?
What was he saying
Under his wings
As she was praying?
Impossible things:
Promise of birth,
God as the father,
Heaven on earth
In human feature . . .
What could she say
But bow her head
As he went away
With so much not said.

“My soul doth magnify . . .”
She whispered there,
“The Lord have mercy”
In the bright air.