I came at last to Lindisfarne
And walked the shore that Aidan trod,
And felt in rain and salty wind
The presence of his Celtic god.
What came we out to seek, to find?
What vestiges of youthful faith
To resurrect from grass and sand,
Upon the bleak Northumbrian heath?
Dear, gentle saint, whose Irish name
Means ‘Little Fire’, ignite in me,
Across the intervening years,
The furnace of your charity.
July 1993 with Judy and Lucy
On our way to Edinburgh
Je suis le jardinier
Roi de mes quelques ares,
L’accoucheur au seuil de la vie
Et nourrice aux petits aux faibles.
Je suis le portier fidèle
Au portail des saisons,
Le semeur aux bras longs
Le tuteur qui tient ferme et bon.
Je suis le porteur d’eau
Soulageant les assoiffés,
Mais aussi le bourreau,
L’envahisseur des microcosmes.
Je suis le bûcheron
Elarguant les branches stériles,
L’incendiaire des feuilles mortes,
Le fossoyeur des trépassés.
Je serai moi-même à la fin,
Le grain qui meurt et qui vit,
L’humus qui renouvelle la terre.
Mais, jusqu’à la tombée du fruit,
Je suis l’homme comblé
Humant l’odeur de ses roses,
Le Bon Dieu qui se promène
A la fraîcheur du soir.
I have pulled away from the shores of faith
And made for the open sea,
With the wind of reason cold in my sails
But no sirens calling me.
I have left behind the dogmas of youth
With their golden certainties.
No more for me at each end of the day
The comforting liturgies.
In the misty regions of un-belief
Where master and boat are one,
Without sextant, compass, landmark or stars
I must navigate alone.
But an aching grows in the heart of me
And a sadness fills my mind
At the thought of promises shared no more
And traditions left behind.
I’ll travel no more the Emmaus road
Nor see in faith’s cloudless light
A saviour revealed by the breaking of bread
In an inn at the fall of night.
In my questing to find the Tree of Life
Across the uncharted sea,
Perhaps I will find, when journeying’s done,
That its roots are anchored in me.
1988
I have a homing instinct for the stars 
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