A Poem For St. Bridget's Day

                                    BRIGHID'S BISHOPS

 

                                    No man shall serve as bishop save

                                    A working smith:  such a one as can craft

                                    A broad brooch of filigree work

                                    Or set me a stone in a silver ring.

                                    Let him be hammering gold to a thinness

                                    When singing prime.  Let his mitre hang

                                    On the door of a forge.  Let him cast a chasuble

                                    Over his apron when summoned to Mass.

 

Being Drawn In

My old boss, Graham Marshall, (I was his curate at St Elisabeth's, Reddish) was today's visiting priest. He was extremely surprised to see us there. And we were surprised to see him.

Graham is the one person from that former life I've kept in touch with. We used to bump into him in Asda. He's a sweet man.

There was no-one handing out hymnbooks and service papers when we arrived, so Ailz volunteered us.

And at the close of the service we brought home a tray of tea-light holders to wash. The tea lights- dozens of them- had been burning in the window embrasures in honour of it being Candlemas.

We are being drawn in. We are learning people's names. The churchwarden is called Linda. Baby Fabrizio's mother is called Udet. I think we've crossed a line. Before today it would have been possible to retire in reasonably good order. Not so now.
 
Thank you, Bridget, Brid, Bride, Brede, Brigid, Brigantia.