Transfiguration

A meditation poem for the feast of the Transfiguration

Transfigured

Slowly, 

now, 

upon 

the branch 

and 

bramble 

the bloom 

becomes 

the berry,

fruit filled 

with the 

sweetness 

of

condensed 

light,

a burst of 

warmth

upon the tasting

tongue,

the harvest joy 

of 

summer sun’s

revealing.

On the 

land 

we gather in 

the gold, 

sky sown,

and silent

grown,

the 

riches 

of soil 

and bough, 

swollen 

and heavy

with pregnant 

possibilities 

as the 

womb of earth 

ripens 

beneath 

the 

blessing 

of 

gold and silver 

lights.

Though 

the year 

in her 

ever-whirling 

dance 

tilts now 

towards 

darkness, 

we keep the 

festivals 

of light,

kindling the 

fire of story

around our 

hearth,

singing 

the soul 

songs

that will keep 

the lamps of

faith lit,

dancing 

at dawn

and dusk

along the 

edges of light

after the

long day’s 

gathering in.

So we are 

transfigured

once again,

lights 

kindled

and 

illumined

by 

the divine

fire 

that dwells

always

in the heart 

of things;

the

uncreated light

by whose

benediction 

all arise 

from

darkness,

the One

who gives 

fruit,

berry,

seed,

ear,

the fiery 

spark 

of their 

transforming 

power;

for what 

are we

all,

but 

light

consuming 

light,

becoming 

ever 

brighter,

until the

divine

day

dawns

and on

the summit

we see 

anew 

the 

joy of

our heart’s

gathering

burn gold

and 

harvest light

as

over

our first 

fruits

of offering

the Son

rises.

Transfiguration Day 2018

Cocoon; a meditation on metamorphosis

 Cocoon

Do not expect cocooning 

To be easy.

It is not a time of rest

But of rebirth.

They used to think 

That the Caterpillar 

Merely slept there,

Awaiting the wonder of wings.

This is not true.

To cocoon means 

The breaking down of self,

Of letting go of all 

that may be considered 

Caterpillar.

Yielding to the chrysalis call.

Dropping all that is old identity, 

All that is desire,

All that is hungry, 

All that is eating, eating, eating,

Endlessly.

When the moment comes, called

To go to the cool dark underleaf, underlog place,

To spin the silk of silent self,

The Caterpillar dissolves,

Touches the point of nothingness

Of being;

Become now

Neither Caterpillar

Nor Butterfly

Become simply, potential,

Until new form is found,

Until the selfmade tomb is too tight

And Butterfly is birthed, 

bursting blessing, beauty.

A journey through stillness 

into freedom,

Into flight,

No one who knew the Caterpillar

Would know it in the Butterfly,

No one who knows the Butterfly 

Would see in it 

Even the memory

Of Caterpillar,

Yet within there is

A continuity of being

A new recipe out of old ingredients

A life remade, a seed flowered, a potency fulfilled,

There is pain in this

I am sure.

How could there not be?

There is always pain 

In surrender,

In transformation,

In new life, new birth

Death before resurrection,

Letting go, before letting be

This is the divine order of things

This is why there hides

Even here, even now,

In all your old Caterpillar desiring,

In the hunger at the core of your being,

The promise of Butterfly

If you would but surrender 

To the call

Of the cocoon.

If you would know, 

even for a day,

The wonder of wings

The freedom of flight.

8th May 2020 

Pic without attribution on the web

Transfiguration Happens: A meditation poem for the second Sunday of Lent

A meditation poem for 

the second Sunday of Lent

Transfiguration Happens

Transfiguration happens

in each moment.

When a sunbeam cuts 

through the forest canopy 

and illumines a glade with 

sudden glory,

transfiguration

happens.

When a flower unfurls 

and startles 

with stunning 

colour,

transfiguration

happens.

When stillness settles 

in the soul, 

long enough for us

to notice light leaking 

lovingly

into the world through 

leaves, and 

life quietly working 

miracles of 

resurrection from 

the mulch 

of seeming 

death,

transfiguration

happens.

And even

when we, worried,

busied and bothered,

do not 

notice our daily

divine draw

up the 

mountain,

from glory 

to 

glory;

transfiguration

happens

still.