On Wednesday evenings, the gown came off;
Rolled sleeves over thick muscled arms
And all action and mobility to replace
The studied stillness of ceremony.
He stepped across the absurd; he linked
Greek texts and robust boyhood games,
The solemnity of sickness, and the kind
Acceptance of homeliness.
No dilettante, he could draw the sweat
From wells of rough vigour, that oiled
The pit gears and steel rails of industry.
His was a muscular Christianity
Built on taut tendons of logic,
Steeled with linguistic rigour, rooted
In finely sieved history, earthed
In clear explanatory consonants.
These twin towers of rigour and vigour
Loom, still unscalable to this child,
But solid, firmly set in truthfulness.
I tie myself to them, hoping to cling
On, as currents of the mundane sweep
Through, as mortality stifles my dreams.
Can I let go? Can I believe in tears,
Weakness and the gift of loss and sadness
To germinate the seeds of creation.