Anam Cara

THE DESCENT OF THE HOLY SPIRIT

Somewhere in our clay remembers the speed of cold,

Overtaking the surge of colours with grey breath,

And the shudder of fields, as they smother beneath

The white infinity of ice paralysing the world.

How swiftly fear touches this relic-cold in the bone.

After his second going, they hide from the crowd.

Then, like manna from a red wind, a tongue of

flame swirls

Into each mind huddled there in the fear-filled room.

The language caul they lived in falls, leaves them wordless,

Then, a kindling, words they never knew they had come

Alive out of nowhere sprung with awakening

That will not cease until winter sets the heart free.

Out in the open now, voices of new belonging,

Needing no courage beyond the fire of their longing.