by Andrew Rumsey
Something's afoot
But not quite at hand:
A closeness, a crackle
you can't understand.
Could that be the Father? Or was it the son?
The ghost of a guess that his brother has come.
The return of the son!
O, the drum of my heart
The return, the return of the son
- I must run!
News breaks like glass:
shards of scattering fact.
Half-heard and sharp words
barked out, inexact.
Some dash to kitchens,
Some, all unprepared, beg
Favours from neighbours,
ask time to be spared.
The return of the son!
O, the drum of my heart
The return, the return of my son
- I must run!
So, parading these legs
like an old madcap turkey,
skidding and scratching
round corners I skim.
Cup running over,
And tears draining down,
For dear life I tear
Through the tumbling town.
The return of the son!
O, the drum of my heart
The return, the return of my son
- I must run!
On! On!
Dashing like mad
Like a full pelt, heartfelt, foolish dad.
Laughing and choking
and soaking the scorn up,
running the gauntlet for him - all for him!
The return of the son!
O, the drum of my heart
The return, the return of my son
- I must run!
So outpace disgrace, now
And outstrip your fears!
The alarm of love
for the aching years.
None of it matters,
Just this urgent joy
none of it matters,
my boy, my boy.
Copyright ©2006 Andrew Rumsey
The Revd Andrew Rumsey is Vicar of Gipsy Hill, London
