Nacht und Nebel

A book-dusty room
in a corner of the house.
Memories in sepia –
displayed in ageing glass
and oaken frames –
hanging askew upon their hooks.
Frayed spines of books –
much used,
much loved –
arrayed on bookshelves
in cluttered system made orderly
by constant reference
and long familiarity –
torn now and flung aside.

Remnant mementos-
skeletal remains and
musty things of stone and wood,
chitin, fur and skin;
pickings off the forest floor,
the gleanings of meadows,
and flotsam found
among sea-foamed rocks –
give lifelong evidence
his mind always enquiring
of God’s creative hand –
smashed beneath rifle butts
and hob-nail boots.

Twin green glass lamps
once sitting on the corners
of the heavy wooden desk, like
his favourite straight-backed chair–
left overturned, abused.
Blood-splattered blotter,
diary and pen arranged to suit
the focal length of reading glasses
lying broken among his correspondence
all scattered on the floor.
Lingering scent of residence –
leather prevails here,
with undercurrents of
polished wood,
lamp oil and the
cymbidium at the window sill.
And something else –
Something foreign and not friendly,
corrupts the homely fragrance
with a recent stench of malice.

Antique oil lamp,
a chandelier forlorn
lies smashed in the centre of the room;
was used by one who
valued an ecosystem of peace -
an atmosphere of gentleness
for damaged souls invited to this room.
Two ripped Biedermeier chairs
once proclaimed comfort,
offered guests time to linger,
as the resident of this manse
gave his full attention
to their need
in this ambience of quietude –
a quietude betrayed.

Neither keepsakes nor belongings
defined the user of this office;
but relationships, and patient service
in the name of Christ his Lord,
gave the definition of this life,
lived with so much purpose.
To this town his door
was always open –
his parish had no boundaries,
no ecclesial restrictions
or social castes –
everyone could enter here
to find welcome and acceptance.

Even when his murderers
came by darkness camouflaged,
broke down that door,
and dragged him bleeding
down the steps to waiting truck,
he blessed them with forgiveness –
a blessing old as Calvary itself –
forgave,
and
did
not
curse.



James Gagiikwe © 2008