All the thoughts of visions and dreams and crazy, uninhibited rushing about, and along came a poem. Run John, run!
It might have been dancing, like Zorba, or David before the Ark But with you it was running: mad, measureless marathons of joy; Crazed careering for Christ’s sake, labyrinthine, loving loping. Your feet refreshed by the dry old novice-master’s words. And the darkened day when the glad joy vanished from your veins, What did you do but run and shout and cry; and run and cry: ‘My God, why? Why have you forsaken me, oh why God, why?’ For why? To learn true wisdom, to learn how, not knowing God’s grace, (Though it be quietly working in their thought, deed and word) So many carry on, living as best they can, loving their fellows, Stepping aside on the narrow path to let the stranger pass. No stranger he, the silent one, who smiled as he walked by Without a word. But not ignoring you, no fear; he wanted you To follow to the log-bench, warm beneath the crabtree At the corner: you can see it now, his piercéd feet cradled In your hands. What then he taught you no dry novice-master Ever could impart, but kings, bishops, country folk and friars All received it from your heart. So run John, run! Run John, run! MMB