In this room, a man and the sun, both leaving,
And in their leaving, as if bleeding into the other
One becomes Translucent,
The other more golden, as like to set fire
To the rim of the earth when both should expire
The last rings brighter as it falls, the first in stillness-shroud
The deafening silence of the crowd, in this empty out-pouching of the corridor
I crept into his room, to see the end of life begin
This crumbling mountain of man, and
I straining on tiptoes to be let in –
A disciple, I’d taken his story, woven into it, I’d “visited”
But, abruptly, as the days made known a hand fell,
Gently, as you shed light, stopped the shuttle in mid-flight
And told my asking eyes, the tapestry was finished. It is done.
Work hadn’t started yet, I was not hard yet, in my discipleship
My heart drummed the strings and thrummed with tension
In my ears, and in my throat, and, God forgive me, in my voice
Weighted chest, your little visitor.
Arm outstretched to give you my ungloved-hand.
I left the room before the golden light I left before you left.
They were making ready
To take you
From the loom
I heard the mechanism of the door click,
Behind me, standing in that corridor, in halogen light
But I had stolen a thread from your tapestry, one golden, from the window
The hand that spun, and stopped, unpicked part of me, to weave you in.
I love, and in your leaving, love you more.
The first condemned to death I saw.
K.MacGloin For the man I remember from Huntingdon.