Light Bearer
I’ll leave Fear by the door,
you say as you step in.
You’re bone-weary, broken,
borne down by the weight you bring.
Shadows shrink from you.
Is it time? I ask, for I know you after all.
Only for tea, you say.
I breathe,
then please, come, rest.
I glimpse the glints beneath your patched-up mac,
the soiled tips of feathers
trailing from beneath your hem.
When I take your coat,
beauty steals my breath.
You spray raindrops round my room
as you let your wings unfold,
as if you’d brought the clouds in.
No, it’s not your time. Not today.
I have come to sit, to weep.
Take these and with tenderness
you pull from a plastic bag
bright ribbons and threads of lives,
half-woven epitaphs.
I go to make your tea,
you, His best-beloved.
Julia Lock was born in London and has lived for many years in Budapest, Hungary where she has recently taken up demonstrating. She is working towards her first collection of poetry.