E. Best: lyrics | fictions | episodes
snowflakes flutter to the ledge
as I sit in darkness
awaiting the mystery of the dove’s descent
your face drops in instead
unannounced
the bell tolls thirty minutes
my time is at an end
sacred or profane
it’s all the same
love is all there is
an unseen flame
binding us all
to itself
you wrote your name in the palm of my hand
and laid the cornerstone
I threw into the lake
it sunk so deep
we haven’t found it to this day
though I never tire of looking
like your book
that I drowned in the bathtub
(I am so sorry)
but it never was the same
after that
it says I’m writ in the palm of your hand
and the rock that was laid for us that day
can never wear away
sunlight on an empty vessel
in the deserted house along the shore
only when I am like that empty vessel
will I be ready
for my guest to call
when the wind and the sea and all the landscape
know me and recognise me
as one belonging
then – only then
will I be ready
for the coming
on the morning of my death
the birds will sing
like they sang upon the morning
of my birth
unless
it is the middle of the night
in which case
there’ll be nothing to be heard
except the song of silence
in my soul
a blind man
in the middle of the road
dazzled by headlights
Love lead me home
here is a book of colour
white or yellow
for those who cannot see
with eyes to see
such is faith
when all our darkness finally drains away
what will be left
here where the doors don’t shut
and nothing works
for very long
when the room that was full to ceiling
has been emptied
and all the colours of the field amaze
then sing his praise
who came to show the way
*
we find his presence
in his very absence
which is everywhere
except for here
and now
the one place
we may ever hope to find him
and never thought to look
*
yellow book
on a white shelf
in morning sun
I pick it up
and read from it
when everyone has gone
don’t worry
rejoice
in what you have begun
yellow book
white shelf
morning sun
you gave me the gift of solitude
I called it loneliness
but it was solitude
and you gave me the gift of constant longing
I called it brokenness
disrepair
but only the gift of constant longing
could keep me searching endlessly
for what is always here
everywhere
the library corner in the new house
is a good spot for meditation
from my chair I can see
a spire rising up between trees
assuming it to be a place of worship
I wondered what denomination it might be
then I was told it was the spire
of the local shopping centre
but it makes little difference to me
it’s still a good spot for meditation
still a spire rising up between trees
come home
to where you are needed
we have left your old chair
at the water’s edge
still waiting
remember again the place of your making
long since forgotten
your father’s face
remember your home
your mother’s terrace
where you sat alone
watching for tears on a weeping fig
that she left in a pot by the door
a place at the table
kept down the years
unbroken
all has been left
wide open
I went hunting the hart
but the hart I did not see
except for one sweet moment
then only fleetingly
this lonely life is brief
and then to be at peace
I went hunting the hart
a hart too quick for me
they are giving me something now to help me sleep
sink deeper in this avenue of angels
in the heart of the terrible absence
we are done
we are unbegun
and our lives do not belong to us at all
saints and angels come
