England, my England

When asked of home what answer should I give?

Of rooks and conkers round a village green;

or looping riverbanks where herons live;

or woodland walks in summer’s brightest sheen?

Or should I think instead of urban sprawl?

Of littered verges soiled by endless queues;

and gum-flecked towns where wailing sirens call;

and drinking binges fill the evening news?

The land I love is different yet again;

it’s found in pockets deep with charity;

compassion brims and will not entertain

a hoarding of our thin prosperity.

No postcard views nor wasteland blights begin

to find the heart of England: look within.


Just a few days after writing this came news of the tragic death of Claire Squires in the London Marathon. Since then The Samaritans, the charity she was raising funds for, have received over £600,000. I think the sestet of this poem says it all.

Five Marks of Mission

Epitome of humble service, found 
with towel and basin, squatting down the line; 
an upper room for now that’s holy ground, 
commemorated too in bread and wine. 
Corrupted trials and mocking purple cloak, 
the jibes descend to cruel malignity, 
til depths are plumbed in hammer, nails and yoke, 
though each is borne with royal dignity. 
Impaled upon that cross in searing pain, 
his shoulders bearing all our worldly vice, 
he pleads forgiveness that will wipe our stain 
and give us grace to enter paradise. 
Five wounds were wrapped within a winding sheet - 
the final marks of mission - now complete.

Stanton Quiet

A manicured perfection seals the early tone:

the yew tree hedges smooth enough to stroke;

and mullioned windows set in honeyed stone;

the mossy tiles and doors to quiet folk.

My breathing slows and sounds intensify:

of rasping rooks and fatly pollened bees,

of clicking metalled hooves that pass nearby,

and musty pews that creak with practised ease.

And in this space the Spirit breathes anew,

ignoring bland attempts at harmony,

instead gives focus to a sharper view,

of pain encountered – dark Gethsemane.

We long for light in cloudless morning air

and seek it most in humble, questing prayer.

A Beautiful Thing

The brutal brunt of power that blasts from Rome,

whose pagan legions straddle half the earth,

has clashed with ancient Hebrew hopes of home

and crushed them all before they come to birth.

The background seethes: an ugly, thwarted crew,

whose venom spits in twisted, squalid deals,

has hatched a plot to kill a fellow Jew;

with thirty silver coins, the trap is sealed.

As Mary knows his time is drawing near,

and sensing that his death is imminent

she breaks the jar of nard that’s cost her dear,

anointing Jesus with the fragrant scent.

This act of beauty owns a special place

in memory of love and perfumed grace.

Cage Fighting

What disturbing news to learn of two young eight year old boys  involved in cage fighting, and it is no surprise to learn that their involvement has caused such a storm of protest, not least from the sport's own governing body.

This is the triumph of the individual at the expense of wider social concerns. When interviewed on TV the parents of one of the boys said "It's his choice; he wants to do it," adding for good measure "and if he wasn't doing this what's the alternative? He'd be out on the streets causing trouble in gangs." Sadly it does call his parents' judgement into question, because sometimes as parents we have to say 'no'. Whatever it is that a child wants won't necessarily always be right or appropriate. Being denied on occasion is part of growing up and learning discernment for yourself. Trivially this can mean that you don't get those sweets you fancy or that new gizmo that's just too expensive. The parents' apparent unwillingness to exercise control was further highlighted by their assertion that their son would otherwise be running wild. Why? Do they have no control of their boy? Are they quietly handing over responsibility for their son's upbringing to others, who have a different agenda? Aren't they perhaps storing up trouble for the future when he truly will be old enough to go out on his own with his friends? That's the time when, if there is trouble, he would be a very dangerous proposition as a trained and experienced cage fighter. The parents are shortening their son's childhood by their failure to take charge of the situation.

There is a further worrying aspect to this case and that is that it seems to have been staged for the entertainment of a mostly adult audience. Is this not a dogfight by another name? The clue to it came in the way the parents replied when questioned by the TV reporter. Their words sounded programmed, as if this was what they had been told or coached to say.

This is a troubling story and you don't have to dig far to sense a sinister element.

Courage and dignity

As a favourite author of mine has written, what we do with - and to - our children is a worryingly accurate indication of what we think about ourselves, the world, and God. More than enough column inches have appeared on this week's riots and the reasons that caused them, so I won't add to them. What is worth saying though is that sympathy and admiration are deserved in equal measure for Mr Tariq Jahan of Birmingham. His 21 year old son Haroon was one of three Asian men killed when they were run down deliberately by a car at the height of the rioting. Mr Jahan was nearby at the time and attempted unsuccessfully to save Haroon's life with CPR. Shortly afterwards he spoke to the media with remarkable composure and dignity. The killings were senseless, he said, but they were not racial and he did not want reprisals for the murders. He went on to speak touchingly of his son and it was clear that he thought the world of him. Haroon had been simply trying to defend his community and now a young life had been cut short for no reason. Mr Jahan deserves time to grieve privately for Haroon and if anything has helped to quieten feelings and encourage a return to normality it is his astonishing poise and wisdom.

Once again I find myself writing about grace under pressure. Mr Jahan is a wonderful example of it, and I hope he will be listened to far and wide.

PSP but KBO

It is a slow torture to watch the person you love dying before your eyes. We are faced with a condition for which there is no known cure; medication can't treat it or alleviate the symptoms, and the research into its causes and possible reversal are still at an early stage. My wife is suffering from Progressive Supranuclear Palsy (PSP), which for many years was diagnosed vaguely as Parkinsonisms. Parkinson's drugs seemed to work for a while, but then quickly lost their efficacy and last year it was decided to stop using them (Stalevo) altogether. It had taken the consultant a number of years to refine his diagnosis, and so now we know what we are up against. This is what Dudley Moore (Pete & Dud; Beyond the Fringe; jazz musician; film star) suffered from and I remember thinking at the time how bizarre his condition was. And suddenly he'd gone.

Now, however, it's up close and personal. It is both a blessing and a curse that M's version of it is a slow-onset type. We've been going with this since the mid 1990s, but in 2010 came the PSP verdict. Each tiny deterioration has been like a boat inching down a slipway and that image also serves to depict a chronic aspect of PSP, namely the loss of balance. Falls are innumerable, almost always backwards, and what gets hit first is the head. M wears a rugby scrum cap at times, but it isn't appropriate to have it on for the entire day, and so our trips to A&E at our local hospital are frequent. The other features of this cruel condition are: the loss of speech; constantly runny eyes and nose, yet not enough saliva in the mouth; loss of handwriting through poor motor control; incontinence of the sort that takes you by surprise; muscular rigidity of the face so that it is hard for anyone unfamiliar with her to read M's thoughts; and finally an increase in facial hair, which is a blight for a woman.

And yet..... and yet. Throughout this long ordeal M has never once uttered a word of complaint, has never once shed a tear, has never once shown an ounce of self-pity. In fact she laughs at her misfortunes and giggles when I pick her up for the umpteenth time. Churchill's wartime acronym was KBO (Keep Buggering On), and although there is a stoicism inherited in post-war years from a military father for this beautful person, it is her grace under pressure which is truly astonishing. It is an agony to see what is happening to her, but she makes it easy for me to look after her. She thanks for me for anything I do for her, which she doesn't have to, and laughs at my daft jokes (I'm glad someone does!) with which we leaven the day. Through all this there has been a quiet development of her faith. For years it was more of a formal observance, but now her belief is strengthened. She may not be cured, but she has been healed.