Brother Leo remembers Brother Francis

An older one today... But one I keep coming back to....

Brother Leo remembers Brother Francis.

“What was he like?” 

I asked,

exhausted from my climb to pierce the

cold cliff top cloister of

this cowled brother’s retreat 

hoping to stir to remembrance his soul 

first stung by the Seraph’s fire so long ago,

yet burning still in eyes ancient but clear

that gazed upon my lack of grace with mercy, 

and smiled at me from a distance I cannot fathom.

“What was he like?” he whispered to himself 

holding my question as carefully as the jug 

with which he poured me water, cave cold and clear,

to quench a pilgrim’s thirst.

Then on that hill above Assisi

the old hermit friar spoke,

slowly at first, and stumbling,

as though his tongue, long lost in silence

of cave and forest, had now to stretch itself

and awaken language once spoken long ago,

like one who comes home from a foreign shore

and finds now the accents of his own confusing. 

So we sat before his cave he and I, 

friar and novice both,

lost in legends and lore, 

all the more beautiful for being

at the same time, 

truth; 

and needing to be told once more

to a world longing for his possibility to be made present

in edenic blessing

once again.

"What was he like?"

"Like a Tree he was, 

that on Summer days shines green 

and in its topmost branches feels, 

the waft of Heaven’s winds 

and dances even at the stillest hour, 

or that in Autumn clings not to leaf 

but 

changes loss to gift by 

casting clothes windwards and 

delights in lightness, 

its bare bones describing sky 

and pointing arrowlike 

always upwards."

"What was he like?"

"Like a Stone he was, 

smoothed by the sweet rain, 

graced by countless hours of chiselling prayer 

into a solidity of stillness. 

A cornerstone, a keystone, a foundation stone 

able to hold the weight of wisdom lightly,

yet bear up the broken and bridge the gap;

a stepping stone to wholeness and home

for those long lost."

 

"What was he like?"

"Like the Night Sky he was, 

open, and sheltering, and many 

couloured in magnificence, but 

starlit in simplicity. 

Its beauty simply a gradation of light, 

infinite in scope and eternal in origin."

"What was he like?"

"Like Fire he was, 

tracing his storied path from spark to ember, 

even in stillness, a banked flame, 

and always energy of exultation breathing blessed,

a conflagration of communion, 

buried just beneath the ashes of abstinence."

"What was he like?"

"Like a Stag he was,

who knows where the sweet water flows, 

and travels the deep dark valleys 

and mountain crags to reach his slaking spirit stream."

"Loud as a Bear he was, 

and as quiet too, 

spending his winters between 

wakefulness and sleep, 

lost in the cave of the heart, 

barely breathing, 

but 

murmuring mercy for all, 

until spirit spring stirs and his 

honeyed roar was heard again 

upon the hills."

"Like a Wolf he was, 

singing soul songs beneath sister Moon’s gaze 

with clear eyes lost in Heaven’s love, 

calling to himself his pack, those

who heard their song and soul sound 

in his echoes of emptiness."

"Badger brawny and 

filled with faith’s wisdom he was, 

and, likened to old Broc 

he knew the ancient ways and 

night walked, as they do, 

secret silent paths of prayer,

long trodden, but needing 

refinding always, in each 

generation’s journey."

"Like a Salmon leaping he was,

glittering like glass,

light sparkling from sliver scales, 

struck by sunlight, suspended

between sky and stream in a 

moment of stillness

over ever rushing river."

"What was he like?"

"A living song spark wrapped in the 

nest of Mother earth,

enfolded in the dun dust brown of the Sparrow,

small and thin he was,

with a barefooted skipping gait

barely holding the joy that burst from his breast,

his cross feathered soul 

never far from song."

"Like a Wren in a thornbush he was,

cocking its eye wryly at the earth bound,

certain of its power of flight

and yet choosing our company."

"Like a Robin he was,

who, tree hidden from view,

sings its piercing song of Heaven

drawing down remembrances 

of innocence past

into tired hearts sure they were 

long past childhood’s delight in sheer being,

and there waking wonder once again."

"Thin like a Thrush he was, 

who seeks the highest branch

even in storm, and sway-sings with delight a tone made purer

for the assault of wind, and rain, 

and thunder crackling all around it."

"Like a Hawk he was, 

staring with unblinking eye into Love’s light 

and falling like a stone from heaven 

to shock his sleeping prey awake."

"And now?"

"What is he like now?"

"Like a Lark he is, 

free and flying heaven high

whose sun-kissed song 

seeks only an open soul and then, 

beckons all skywards."

"And I miss him, though 

he sings his lark song in my heart too,

Aye, and in yours as well or you 

wouldn’t have visited me here

now would you?"

"But I shall fly to him soon, 

and there we will sing together 

once again our lark lauds for the One

who gathers all, bird, and beast, and brother, in blessing."

And then we sat, old and young together

Cowled in brown both, though centuries between,

and ghosts to each other,

meeting in eternity's one moment,

until the sun set and the moon rose

waiting for the Nightingale to chant her compline call

and Assisi bells 

to ring out again 

in midnight matins 

his song of peace.