RESURGEO

RESURGEO

“... they shall mount up with wings as eagles ...”
Isaiah

Overlooked by the college gardeners, a small colony of nettles had tucked itself close up against the South West corner of the Chapel. The caterpillar walked slowly along a nettle leaf unceasingly munching, his small body undulating like a ripple on a quiet green pool. Without pausing in his mastication he watched a black column come into sight. Up the long path, over the bridge and past the West Facade of Gibb’s Building, sixteen boys walked two by two, top-hatted, black gowned and jacketed, stiffly white collared. Unnoticing of the caterpillar, they went quietly into the Chapel.

‘They look a bit like a giant version of me,’ thought the caterpillar, ‘quiet, disciplined, purposeful.’ He folded his long black body dappled with white over the edge of his leaf and slid into a hollow in the nettle stalk. From the Chapel came the sound of boys’ voices, high and clear like the fluting of black birds calling to their loves in the misty morning of a new Spring day. The music rose into a great crescendo: “God is our hope and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth be moved ...”

The caterpillar liked the singing but wondered what this word ‘hope’ could have to do with him. He remembered the silken shelter of the nest he and his many newly hatched bothers and sisters had spun beneath a large nettle leaf. But, attacked by parasitic Tachinid grubs, all but one of his siblings had died, and she had long left him for another nettle plant and now hung inert in her yellow chrysalis suspended from beneath the leaf which once had fed her. The only thing the caterpillar knew he could expect was this kind of living death - there seemed nothing to hope for. He sighed and nibbled with little enthusiasm at a particularly succulent young leaf.

Late in the May evening the caterpillar was disturbed by the aroma of cigars and the conversation of two men standing in the light of the Porch lamp.
“Sober looking little fellow.” the first voice said. “Almost funereal, all that black.”
“But what a beauty that sobriety hides.” replied the second voice. “ In May Week he’ll spin his own shroud; six weeks of limbo and then, a Summer miracle - from the caterpillar’s empty tomb will fly an Inarchis io. That’s a Peacock Butterfly to you, Provost. Wings of red-rust with peacock tail jewels, yellow and purple, white and blue. Stunning, absolutely stunning.”
“Come on, let’s go.” urged his companion, “That’s enough about your blessed Lepidoptera. It’s not Summer yet, and I’m cold.”

‘I shall become beautiful.’ mused the caterpillar, ‘I shall fly upwards towards the sun. I shall have a cousin who looks like a shard of Tiffany glass, and another cloaked in regal purple who will dance with a lady in a grey-black gown marbled with white. But how is it that I have all these pictures in my head? Moonshine memory perhaps?’ He climbed slowly to the top of the nettle stalk and gazed up at the night sky which dappled with stars had become some huge brilliant likeness of his own modest white speckled coat. ‘I’m not sure that there is anyone up there,’ he said, ‘but just in case, for this hope that I have been given I would like to say - “Thank You.”’

Naomi

POEMS

A PRAYER FOR NIGHT TIME

May the sea be calm for us,
The little waves sing a soft Goodnight for us,
The stars gently light the darkness for us,
The full moon heavy and low above the shadowy horizon
Unroll her soft gold carpet for us,
So that we may walk quietly into the East of the morning.

Naomi

A PRAYER FOR INNER PEACE

Let us be quiet in our hearts as is
The still cormorant watching from the sunlit rock,
The tranquil sea fret stealing over the water,
The gentle wave caressing the shingle,
The sea campion motionless in her gown of white.

For these are the mute harbingers of a loving God
And the promise of His peace.

Naomi

A PRAYER FOR PEACE IN THE HOLY LAND
January 2009

May the cruel winds of Winter
be gentled by the promise of Spring.
May the bitter mantle of ice and snow
be warmed by the green shoots of hope.
May the misery of this war's pain and despair
be overcome by the fragile power of love.

Naomi

ENVOI

ENVOI: From Grief to Glory
Occasioned by the Death of Oliver Postgate, 8 December 2008

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil

They had long been walking with Death on a bleak and lonely path. At first Death padded behind them, like the Tiger of her childhood nightmare: “Don’t be afraid, I shall not harm you. I am soft and I am warm.” He had spoken then as now in a voice gentle and light, but always the burning breath was on the back of her neck and the jagged edges of toothed shadows were all about them. The Tiger melted away and a tall young man, Death the Companion, saturnine and unsmiling appeared between them. He put their hands into his hands and drew them close together under the cloak he wore. “Come,” he said quietly, “there must be no more delay, the time is almost here. There is nothing left to fear.” But the young man’s voice was like the jangling of slivers of ice in the moonlit wind, and they were afraid. He because it was his longed for time that now was almost come, and she because she could not imagine any future without him.

He looked up and remembered the warmth of her love even in the most terrible times of his illness, and he smiled at her in the abiding pleasure of her company. She watched as he bent again over his stick, head hunched into his shoulders, as painfully he shuffled and stumbled along the stony path. She put out her hand and stroked the greying cheek red blotched with the marks of his sickness, and to her he was as beautiful as the day she had first met this once-upon-a-time giant of a man, vast in intellect, magnificent in spirit.

“How long now?” he whispered to her. “Not long now.” and she took his hand. “I love you.” he said. The young man led them to a flat place from where they could see the valley beyond and the steep banks of a river so vast, with water in such quantity that it might have been fed by all the rivers and the oceans of the world, mighty cataracts and great tidal waves, quiet pools and bubbling mountain streams. Everywhere the myriad droplets leapt and danced, wheeling and plunging across the surface of the eddying waters.

Death the Angel who separates the soul from the body, now stood beside them, above them and all around them. “Why have you brought us here?” she asked. Death shook out his silvered robe and spoke gently: “This is the eternal river which cradles the Universe. From it you both came, and to it this night he is to return.” The clouds suddenly cleared the moon and unrolled a wide glinting pale gold carpet across the waters, stretching far into the shadowy distance. “Follow me now,” invited Death, “and ride the waters into eternity.” Death led him to the edge of the shining path and together they walked towards the depths of the shimmering waves. She watched him go and marvelled as all his anguish and depression, his anger and confusion, all seemed to fall away from him. He dropped his stick; straight backed and laughing, he plunged into the river and she could see him no longer. A tiny droplet flashed white diamond bright high above the dancing waters, and she smiled.

“I told you sixty years ago,” said the Tiger standing beside her, “that I would not harm you.” She leaned silently against him and stroked his soft flank. And the Tiger, who was Death the Merciful, purred gently with a quiet pleasure.

Naomi

DE MIRACULIS

DE MIRACULIS

All shall be ruled by fellowship I say,
When we are ruled by the love of one another.
All shall be ruled by fellowship I say,
In the light that is coming in the morning.

Sidney Carter: John Ball

Sir Rainald’s servants found the young man lying beside the track leading to the Manor House. His clothes, though dishevelled, were made of fine cloth and his hands were pale and soft, but his eyes were blank and he could not speak. He had no visible injury and allowed himself to be led to the long time empty cottage close to the Manor Farm. There Sir Rainald himself brought him a blanket of coney skins, a bed, a stool and a six-board oak chest black with age and beeswax. Each day food and wine, wood for the fire and candles to light the dark evenings of winter were sent to the cottage. Not a word did the young man speak, but he bowed low to Sir Rainald and nodded briefly to the servants.

One frost white morning as the reluctant Christmastide sun rose behind the low timbered walls and the reed thatch, a boy of perhaps ten years lifted the latch of the young man’s door, and went into the small dark room He was ragged and grubby, but he smiled and bade the young man a Good Day as he unpacked his basket. The young man looked silently away, unsmiling. Was there anything else the master wanted Aldret persisted. The young man hesitated, then pointed to the small wooden pipe which hung from the boy’s belt. “Play me a tune.” he said, and lay back against the wool filled mattress. Aldret put the mouthpiece to his lips and the young man shut his eyes

As he always did, the young mand saw in his mind’s eye his wife Ysolt in her coffin, her new born babe lying on her breast. The pipe filled the December gloom with the trilling of birds and the soft song of running water, and suddenly the gloom of the cottage seemed to be overwhelmed by a midsummer sun. He could hear laughter and there was Ysolt in her blue gown, her corn gold hair flying out loose behind her as she danced with him in her father’s hall. He walked with her once more across soft green fields and amongst the dancing dappled shadows of the ancient forest, and he came alive again.

“What miracle is this?” Sir Rainald came into the cottage as the young man, smiling while the tears ran down his cheeks, put a hand on Aldret’s shoulder and a silver coin in his scrip. “No miracle, my lord,” the young man said, “as when our Saviour was born of a Virgin and cradled in a manger. Rather it is the uniting of your abiding kindness to a mind-sick stranger together with Aldret’s generous sharing of his music with me, that have opened my eyes again to the loving presence of my lady who lives on in my heart’s memory. If such courtesy and compassion were always to direct us thus towards all whom we may meet, then my lord in this world we should perhaps have little need of miracles.”

Naomi

PARLEY OF INTOLERANCE

PARLEY OF INTOLERANCE

First Peace and Silence all disputes controll,
Then Order plaies the soul;
And giving all things their set forms and houres,
Makes of wilde woods sweet walks and bowres.

Herbert; from ‘The Familie’

“This” complained the Death Watch Beetle “is my sacred space. I have my home here and am nourished by it.” “It’s you who are spoiling my home with your selfish larval gnawing, piles of dust everywhere , and your arrogant claims to be superior.” protested the mouse. “You’ve got no respect for my sacred space.” “Well that’s a joke” said the Beetle. “What about that heap of mouldy crumbs and those disgusting rotten apples you hide behind the old chairs? Uncivilised I call it.” “Look out,” squeaked the Mouse, “there’s the awful Bat. Now, he is uncivilised and disgusting, with horrible noisome habits. I don’t see why any of the rest of us should put up with him. Oh, no...”

The bat landed and hung upside down from the Beetle’s beam. “Room for a little one?” he piped. “No, definitely not.” they chorused. “This is our space.” said the Beetle. “There’s no room for anyone else.” added the Mouse. “You don’t fit in with us.” protested the Beetle. “You are not of our persuasion. And besides, you stink.” “Why don’t you go outside , or into the porch with the Wren?” suggested the Mouse. “She’s a flyer too, and she doesn’t trouble anyone - too obsessed with those eggs. She wouldn’t mind.” “I would mind.” snapped the Bat, “I am a mammal like you. Beetles I can put up with - they taste quite good. But I don’t consort with birds.”

“That, gentlemen, is enough.” It was the Voice speaking in the darkness behind the curtain, through the crack in the door, from beneath the flagstoned floor, from the apex of the vault, louder than the loudest clap of thunder, more silent than the silence of a still feather. Whose voice it was depended on who was listening. It might be Bramha or G-d, Confucius or Amaterasu, Isis or Baku, even Jesus. “This” continued the Voice “is no one creatures’s space. It is sacred precisely because it belongs to no-one. It is made sacred because of the care and love of each for the others within it. We observe precious little of that love here, gentlemen.” The bat began a shrill protest, but the Voice was not to be interrupted. “And by ‘love’ We do not mean ‘like’. We do not expect you to find each other agreeable. We do not require you to worship the same gods, or indeed to worship any god at all. Resolve therefore to look care-fully at each other, to try to understand each other, to respect each other.”

The Voice paused. The Bat, the Mouse and the Beatle moved closer together, looking outwards with wonder and awe, no longer glaring at each other. “I’ll give it a go.” the Beatle muttered. “I’ll try.” the Mouse said softly. “I suppose it might work.” the Bat admitted reluctanly. “It has to work,” responded the Voice, “or you betray that purpose for which you were made, which would indeed be sad.”

Naomi

THE ODD TRIO

THE ODD TRIO

Who practices hospitality entertains God - Ancient Proverb

The Secretary bird sat disconsolately in the empty saucer-like nest she had made high in a massive old oak tree. She thought about her chick seized by a marauding eagle and her mate who with clipped wings had struggled into the air, lost the thermal on which he was riding and crashed to a cruel death on the razor wire which topped the fence of the dreadful menagerie in which they had been trapped for the past five years. She flew upwards and then laboriously crossed the boundary fence to an uncertain freedom. She walked across the Norfolk Brecklands, fifteen miles a day until she found, near South Dereham, “The British Raptor Sanctuary” where the Man welcomed her, gave her fresh food and some little hope for her future.

A Posse of British Raptors - a broken winged Barn Owl, two tailless Sparrowhawks, a club-clawed Goshawk and a rather less than enthusiastic purblind Kestrel - listened to her soft mewing cry. She was a conspicuous bird, almost four feet high, elegant in her grey and white and black plumage with long black knee britches, quilled headress and orange eye patched face. They envied her her exotic beauty; they feared she had more than her fair share of fresh food brought to her by the Man; they mocked her African song; they despised her hunting technique - although she had wings and a beak she ran after her prey, for Horus’ sake, and stamped it to death!

Sitting quietly in an adjacent tree, another immigrant outcast watched and mused. He was a young undersized Spanish Griffon Vulture brought to the Sanctuary from Belgium where, searching for food many hundreds of miles from his home in the Pyrenees, he became separated from the rest of his flock and was found distressed and exhausted wandering in a park near Ghent. An exceedingly nervous bird, constantly terrified of an imagined attack from his own shadow, he nowadays rarely finished his dive from his nest to the raw meat put out for him, but soared back empty-beaked and hungry to the safety of the tree-top. He had to be hand fed and so had become the butt of the Posse’s cruel jokes.

A few days later he flew low above the ground close to the running Secretary Bird. She did not turn him away, but left for him a dead mouse and a grass snake, and there was no swooping shadow to terrify him. Guided by the sound of her running feet the Kestrel joined the strange pair and found a short tailed vole which the Secretary had stunned and kicked in his direction. As they made their daily sorties like some dignified avian Battle of Britain Flight emerging modestly out of a misty morning, the Posse shrugged its collective wings, turned its collective ire upon a flight of young marauding buzzards who were creating havoc amongst the older raptor residents, and finally left the Odd Trio to work out their lives together in peace.

Naomi

SHIVA DANCING

Only in the dance do I know how to tell the parable of the highest things....

Nietsche: Zarathustra, "The Tomb Song,"

The Rabbit limped across the blackened stubble to the patch of low Autumn sunlight underneath the old tree which spread its leafless branches thickly across the corner of the field. He stretched out his limbs gratefully on the still warm dusty earth, closed his eyes and quietly, gently, died.

Lucy and Anisha, on their way home from school to the farm cottages on the ridge above the field, found him there, looking already as if he were returning to the earth on which he lay. For a moment they gazed at him, and then hurried away. They returned with Lucy’s own small spade and a piece of fine Indian cotton, from Anisha’s treasure box, embroidered with an image of a blue skinned, four-armed dancing Shiva, a belt of skulls at his waist and a cobra, symbol of divine power, around his neck.

They took it in turns to dig a grave deep in the soft dry earth under the tree. These were country children who had little fear of death; they wrapped the stiffening body in the delicate cotton and then, carefully and reverently, lowered it into the hole they had dug. They filled in the grave with the thin brown dust and stood for a moment, solemn under the tree.

As they passed the small grave, each day the girls checked that it was undisturbed. The long Autumn rains had turned Summer’s dust into damp mud and the Rabbit lay safe beneath his loamy pall. In January the first snow fell; the frosts were hard and the blown white flakes lay blanket thick under the tree until March. As the snow melted Lucy noticed small green shoots pushing through the dark brown earth; weeds perhaps, the girls thought.

By the end of April it was obvious that what they had thought was some old weed was growing into a strong thick stemmed plant. Spring gave way to Summer and the plant pushed its way upwards in a clump of a dozen spikes, with tiny grey-green narrow leaves, bases and sheaths tinged with violet. As full Summer approached it flowered, covering one side of each spike with a mass of heads - pale green upper petals like pointed shells, brown lips tinged with pink. Nothing else grew in that patch of dried up earth, just the plant now maybe 18 or 20 inches high and shining like a cluster of far away pale stars in its drab and shaded home.

The girls were puzzled - they had never seen flowers like this before. Anisha’s father brought a local botanist to look at this miracle of new life. It was, the young man said, a rare wild orchid, a Violet Helleborine which did well in woodland and in shaded places, but in this old patch of untended barren earth, its success was quite remarkable.

“It was because of the Rabbit who died.” said Lucy, “His bones must have fed the plant.” “And the Lord Shiva.” added Anisha. “First he danced at the Rabbit’s death but now he is dancing for the birth of a new life.”

Naomi, February 2008