What was he like? Brother Leo remembers Brother Francis

What was he like? 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

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,

like one who comes home from a foreign shore

and finds the accents of his own confusing.

So we sat before his cave he and I,

friar and novice,

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 knew 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,

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 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 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,

until the sun set and the moon rose

waiting for the Nightingale to chant her compline call

and Assisi bells to ring their song of peace.