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Agnes Meadows

God’s paintbrush

At the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s Masterpiece, Barcelona, January 2020

And I stepped inside, overwhelmed already By the honeycombed spires which needled clouds Kissed by the harp-string of angel’s breath, By the intensity of patterned stone on stone, Intricate carvings so dense it was hard to distinguish Head from torso, a rising undulation, a coil, a whiplash, A turbulent rubric of blooms and creatures both.

I stepped inside, and my breath was snatched away By the sheer immensity of rising pillars confronting me, A forest of trunks worn smooth by multitudinous hands Seeking salvation, a supplication of branches Expressing the eternal alphabet of faith all overlaid By the low rumbling undercurrent of human voices, A burgeoning leaf-fall of prayers eddying To a ceiling distant as Heaven itself. Red glass flamed along one wall, the heat Of madness translated into vitrine inspiration, While other panes mosaiced the ocean’s swell, The marriage of sea and sky in swathes of blue and turquoise, As if Neptune’s very spirit had been captured And held fast within Aurora’s never-ending clutch, Each window an elemental celebration of life within life.

This was beauty solidified, as if Bird song and bell chime, summer laughter And the soft glance of lovers at midnight had All been brought there to sleep within the stone’s embrace ‘Til woken by the Architect’s soft celestial kiss. And seeing all this, this panoply of beauty, it was easy To believe in the Almighty, however invisible or inscrutable, And to ponder if Gaudi had, indeed, been God’s paintbrush.

Viral terror

April 2020 – In the wake of the coronavirus 19 Pandemic

Imprisoned by this viral foe, the somnolent smile Of evening sunlight turning brickwork golden on old Victorian walls reminds me that life beyond my window continues. The horizon is clean of airplane’s rasping interruptions, And only clouds and sparrows soften azure skies. Spring burgeons trees, misting them with emerald love, The promise of blossom and fruit still dreaming in each Waiting bough. There is sweetness in the wind, Deprived of endless footsteps or fume-spread. The land breathes a soul-deep sigh, Gaia’s relief whispering through Abandoned streets and alleyways, across heath and hill-top, A joyous sibilance that weaves through forests, snaking along Stone-rich canyons, and stream-stitched valleys. Our cities stand silent and empty now, streets occupied Only by the shadows of the long dead congregating moth-like Under a silvery lunar lamp, each castle-keep, each church, Each monument and battle-site forsworn.

And I wonder when all this is done, when these days and weeks Of viral terror have finally departed, when we have Grown accustomed to stillness, and solitude Is no longer a burden, will we understand The complexion of our brave new world, count up the cost Of gain and loss, and take the time to once again Recognise the beauty of ancient sun-gilded stones, Acknowledge the purity of spring’s unfouled breathing, And remember the currency of kindness in all its myriad forms.