Grace and a coracle ( Caim agus corrach)

An early heat, sunshine on Allan Water

Queer Quakers gathering in the old cottages

Knocked together, symbol of hoped for Christian unity,

Oikemene,

We couldn’t fill the beds. We weren’t alone

Much bigger players than us, with riches, robes, sanctity

Couldn’t fill the beds. Couldn’t balance the books.

But still, and being still, people had prayed

Said grace before good food, taken the good air

Of the quiet streets and lanes of Blane’s town.

We walked the creaking narrow corridor

Like a swaying ship, a steam era carriage,

Twisting and turning through the building’s core

To first course, second course Galley, Refectory.

We met, gained insight, did our business,

Read the script of Spirit, crafted our future, our coracle.

Found words. Found silence. Joined the quiet fun

In the Tappit Hen, bluegrass brothers, beauteous youth.

The Cathedral shadowed us when we took our tea

On the sun-trap terrace. An unspoken stain shadowed us

Innocents slain in Blane’s citadel. It seemed unreal

Was unreal on this quiet Spring day. A circle is turning, questioning

Questioning the use of stones and slate, the fate of

People, bindings, fellowship - wicker baskets.

And into this, this quietus, a quiet nun

Intones with the bells “All will be well, All will be well”

We leave, giving thanks, Deo Gratias, for our time here.

April 2011