On Thursday evening I sat
on the bench by the Beauchamp porch
of the parish church.
The graveyard glass new-mown.
All was quiet.
I looked at the weatherworn ironstone
of the ancient building,
the south door, a place of going in
and coming out for 700 years,
I thought of ‘our’ chapel
in the centre of the village,
another repository of joys and tears,
echoing in its emptiness;
a shell without the pearl of life.
Lord, who at Gethsemane prayed alone,
draw us to yourself;
may this cup of separation
Christ of resurrection encounters,
not to be found in an empty tomb,
find us: in a garden
or behind our own locked doors.
May the joy and promises of Easter