Sepulchre

I

I have at home a Moses basket
that lies empty,
for the child that should have inhabited it
is spread on the wind;
ashes to ashes
dust to Hertfordshire dust
along the Lea Valley.
Once he had a home
a tight, growing, warm and liquid home
with love and nourishment, physical and emotional, piped in.
But that was only home for a few short weeks
until it became a Sepulchre
a dwelling place for those that have passed on
to pastures new;
though pastures new implies pastures old
laid in
but his home saw no still waters, amniotic or otherwise
only valleys
and shadows
in the dark.

And there he dwelt and died;
a not so holy sepulchre, converted from
the bearer of life
to the holder of death.
Your womb
a tomb.
Even then, your life ran in reverse
chromosomes corrupted
inverted humanity
like a man presented pensioned
and then ending up in receipt of child benefit
an impossibility experienced very clearly
for I was there
from start to finish.
Death then birth,
even after your life was over and your heart beat no more;
yet still
birth.

If you were looking for answers you should creep with Nicodemus
quietly at night in order to hide emotion
questioning the idea of reproducing what cannot be repeated
You and I are too large, too adult, too grown to re-enter that place.
What do you mean when you speak of a new birth?
What do you mean when you say I can have this?
Do you not see  that that might be so useless,
for I cannot bear again to see that tiny body.
Born again? How can new life come when the old life is already beyond extinguished?

For me the first fruits lie rotted in the corner,
not a glorious renewed resurrection;
rather a rapid and distressing ejection
of a corpse.
No chrysalis awakening in the Spring dawn
to venture out into a new world,
wings stretching to fly in an extra dimension from before
thousands of feet traded for the beauty of
unlimited verticality.

Ascension follows forty days, yet you did not have
even forty weeks

II

Here we are 12 months later
and finally in other valleys, different green pastures,
by another still water
I let go and release you
again and again.
Forgiven for the pain
forgiven for the strain
for the way your corrupted perfection
corrupted my year

The clear realisation
that I have constructed a sepulchre
of my own
of anger and frustration
that the One who should have delivered
a new life somewhere else, something else
a reward for the suffering in this place
a prize for the sacrifice,
is not beholden to my theology.
He does not work on a karmaic basis,
He lets you sit in the dust till his glory is revealed.

But I took my dust
and I fashioned it into a house
and washed the walls white
declared my innocence to the world,
kept hidden my guilt
my deification of self;
the unspoken clear untruth
of my obvious right to a new life
any new life
but this one.

A sepulchre all of my own making

Here we are 12 months later
Time to take out the pick,
call in the heavy squad
another demolition job
for my heart.
Time to move on
not to forget or deny
or refuse to reply to the still present pain
but rather the moment to come out of
the sepulchre
alive.
Born again
just life borne again
rather than entombed
in resentment and frustration.
If you know what it is like to step into light after deep deep darkness,
take my blind grasping hand and guide my way
your way.

I am chrysalis and beyond chrysalis
for though I fly again
I still wait for wings to carry me far away
to see where I will land
again and again
till my final
Sepulchre;
our final
Sepulchre
shared with all those who have dwelt in one before

especially you.