Encounter
Mid-August.
It is now night. The little town Is scattered with happy light. He turns to her he loves In the attic room - ‘Go down And bring the water, darling, That we must Take home.’ She gathers bottles, kisses him And leaves Amid the sleepy murmur of settling doves Under the hotel eaves, Managing the uncomfortable stair To a thin door, Steep paths, And warm velvet Pyrenean air. The hot day’s diesel Dissipates. The café-bars Reel with visiting Irish, blarney arms Around their mates. She skirts foreign cars Down into the main street, Into the swell Of pilgrims, past the late Bright kiosks, the emporia; She has let her feet Feel their own way, carry her Into the heart of Lourdes, Into the evening throng, A people-river in which she is borne along. And it is then Amid the images Of plastic basilicas, and Bernadettes, Candles, rosaries and grotto sets, Of Mary in roses, Mary pierced with swords, Mary in flashing rainbows, Mary on clouds That amid the crowds She is met; and entered. It is then she knows This evening is extraordinary Because on her walk for water She is one with Mary. The arms open wide; she is God’s daughter. Into the darkness she is streaming love Out of a double heart And all the people can see as she passes by (Could they perceive such things) It is Heaven’s eye That lights on them And the hands, the fingers That pour forth crippled souls’ healing Lift from her like wings. She has been set apart; And the ineffable sweetness of Our Lady lingers Even when she has entered the Domain, Lightly touching the lonely, Those in pain, The nuns, the nurses, patient volunteers, Giving Her love untiring To the hopeless, to the devout Clutching their souvenirs At the holy spring, To the merely curious and to those barely living The infinite healing loveliness streams out. Mary is in her as she fills each flask At the spigots, Mary behind her eyes In the torchlight. Around her the old rocks and worn buildings rise. She is not allowed to make an offering, Even to ask If it would be right To save the basilica and its crumbling steeple. Words come onto her own lips silently, ‘Buildings are not important. Only people.’ She and Our Lady turn to make their way Out of the town. Now she is climbing steps that she came down When she was still alone. ‘Look by your feet!’ There in the stone Is a perfect image of Mary and her Child. In the pitch dark on her PDA The picture is drawn and filed. Then, the journey complete, Mary is gone. Up in the hotel room, herself again, She hands holy water to the dearest of men, Is kissed, Has been, as ever, missed. How was she back so late Leaving him so painfully long to wait Instead of coming straight From the Domain? ... Even to him, In her transfigured state, Can she explain? |