Remembering

Boat ribs at low tide, Brodick, Isle of Arran (c) JRen 2016

I came across this poem as I skimmed a new book - a collection of readings for Advent, which includes the last week of November all the way through to January 8th - it is an eclectic mix, of poetry and prose, philosophy and musings, and I am looking forward to spending daily time with it at the end of this month.

I offer this poem now in the light of today - Armistice Day, Sunday - Remembrance Sunday - and the way the world is this week - stunned, afraid, anxious, rebellious, resigned... many, many feelings, all entwined. 

Sylvia Plath - Black Rook 

in Rainy Weather 

On the stiff twig up there 

Hunches a wet black rook

Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.

I do not expect a miracle

Or an accident

To set the sight on fire

In my eye, nor seek

Any more in the desultory weather some design,

But let spotted leaves fall as they fall, 

Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire, 

Occasionally, some backtalk

From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: 

A certain minor light may still 

Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair

As if a celestial burning took

Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then - 

Thus hallowing an interval

Otherwise inconsequent 

By bestowing largesse, honour,

One might say love. At any rate,

I now walk

Wary (for it could happen

Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical, 

Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever Angel may choose to flare

Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook

Ordering its black feathers can so shine

As to seize my senses, haul

My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear

Of total neutrality. With luck,

Trekking stubborn through this season 

Of fatigue, I shall

Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,

If you dare to call those spasmodic 

Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,

The long wait for the Angel,

For that rare, random descent.