Joseph Comes to a Decision

Genteleschi ‘s picture Flight into Egypt 1620 shows an utterly exhausted Joseph.

She told me of the angel’s visit, just
Before she left; but what she rightly meant,
I could not say – the Holy Spirit, a son
Who would be mighty, great, of royal descent –

Then with a knowing smile she went. I tried,
I tried so hard, to plane away my doubt
Which stuck like splinters in my inmost parts,
Yet still the question came; was she devout,

Deceitful, or deluded? I could not tell
And though I prayed, I feared whatever word
The Lord might say to me, as if my plans
Might contradict His will, or I’d misheard

Somehow His still, small voice. And so I’d rise
Each day and tell my friends we’d soon be wed,
Yet fretting inly at my choice. But now
Mary has returned. And what she said

I scarce can credit. That the child’s not mine,
I have no doubt. That the child is God’s –
can that be true? What if Mary’s right?
No, this fantastic tale sits at odds

With God’s grace, and I must let her go,
But not disgrace her – maybe she’s divined
Some truth I cannot see. Tomorrow, then,
I will – well, what exactly? My troubled mind

Is wrestling through this long and horrid night,
My splintered plans still sticking in my soul.
Yet like my father Jacob I hold out
For El-Shaddai to bless me, make me whole.

And just before the glimmer of the day
I hear a certain voice, “Don’t be afraid.”
Then suddenly I understand. In Him
The saving power of God will be displayed

And I must own Him as my child, provide
For Him and name Him Jesus – a special role
Indeed, yet one I see is fraught with risk –
A jealous king who will not yield control

Religious leaders proud of such good works,
Romans prone to crush any who rebel –
Will they feel threatened by this wondrous news
Or worship God as their Emmanuel?

He alone knows the answer. I must trust
And with the breaking of the clear new dawn
Take Mary home as my betrothed, to wait
With her until this precious child is born.

Facing winter

A heavy greyness hang across the wolds,
Dissolving form and substance on the near
Horizon, and in its cold, uncertain light,
Even autumn’s hues are drab and drear.

The weary year is turning once again.
Forgotten is the August drought – save
By the oak and ash who in the searing heat
Discarded bough and branch, their scars engraved

Upon the trunks that glisten in the mist –
And fierce September storms are really just
A memory now, as not a breeze disturbs
The stealthy, slow advance of creeping dusk

That wreathes around the hedges of the heart.
It’s time to build a house against the night
Before the clocks fall back and we are plunged
Into along, deep gloom where faith, not sight

Will lead us through the winter of our soul
Remembered warmth of spring our hope, our goal.

Rutland, October 2025

The tinted screen

Social media is distorting our view of the world…

Emerging from the fog of dreams I first
Began to check the news, to see what signs
Of God might perhaps be found amid
So many claims and counterclaims online

And then, unthinking, went down rabbit holes
That seemed to educate and entertain…
I could have lost myself ago had not
The grey autumnal light begun to claim

My darkened room. And so I chose to lay
Aside this mirror of my blighted soul
To look beyond my own protective walls
Outside to find the good and true and whole –

Four blue tits flitting swiftly through the bush
Beneath my bedroom window; raucous crows
Disputing with an angry magpie; gangs
Of pigeons flocking where the sparrows throw

Discarded seeds; while in the scudding clouds
A hint of rainbow even could be seen.
And as I made my breakfast so I thought
Of those imprisoned by their tinted screens

Who will this day send vitriolic tweets
Or paint graffiti on their neighbour’s wall
And demonise the tribes of left and right
But little think one God is judge of all.

On Trendlebere Down

On Trendlebere Down we came across
The stonechat’s natural habitat – thick tracts
Of bracken stretching out beyond the wide
Horizon, broken only by the tracks

Of human interlopers – and bent, gnarled clumps
Of golden gorse, fringed by the flowering ling
Where, resplendent in his summer dress,
The cock begins – not exactly to sing

But make the sound of granite pebbles rubbed
Together – a gentle echo of how the moor
Was formed, when in God’s hands the elements
Combined, and why this land stirs up such awe.

Oxford Station 19 Jun 25

Not directly connected to this poem,
but a reminder of the retreat house where I was staying

The sultry, sun-baked station hums with haste
And hurry – excited schoolkids taking flight
For they’ve misread the live departure boards;
Two gentleman in top hat and tails – despite

The heat – walking with affected gait;
Bright young things taking selfies for their mates,
Their fascinators flapping in the breeze;
A used car dealer with his trader plates:

Even a grey, tall friar, dressed in white,
Who tries – and fails – to keep a cool restraint
As in the melee one converging thong
Swoops down the platform to the coming train.

I pick my burden up again. Last night
While trudging through a slurried field I heard
A trinity of kite just overhead
Who called like seraphim, and then observed

How in the sun’s declining light an old
Gnarled oak was set ablaze but did not burn.
Now as I jostle for my seat, my heart
Already yearns – I know I must return.