For Karol Wjotyla
Going – like a slow walk through a meadow towards autumn
Skin – a shrivelled leaf, veins showing through the papery veil that has been home
Soul and spirit pulling apart now
And the stronger the light comes
The longer the shadow is cast
Prayers mingling with quiet emotion
Reflections before bedtime
History gathering you in her arms, kissing your forehead
And whispering:
“Thank you, son – you made me well...”
Slipping away now
Someone reading to you like a loving mother of Christ’s slow passage home
The cross searing into every memory
Bound, like Him, led to a place you do not wish to go
What is the last thing you see?
The call carried on the waiting mourners:
“Stretch out your hands, my son, come follow Me...”
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