by Sarah Law
Welcome
God comes to me in daily irritants:
a tepid splash of dirty laundry water,
a cobweb resolute against my cloth,
a snag of fishbone in the meagre soup,
my reticence interpreted as sloth;
the cough and scrape of sisters in the choir,
a finger-smudge on cards I have designed,
a blanket gone. No room beside the fire.
A streak of pain. A faith I cannot find:
I welcome everything as bread and wine.
Dust
Since old and useless things are stowed
up in the convent loft, I wondered
whether they were nearer heaven
than our bustling nuns below –
perhaps the chill preserves them;
humility is fostered in the dark.
I crept up in my clumsy sandals,
touched rough wood, cracked bowls,
and honoured their abandonment –
my hands made holy with dust.
Sarah Law lives in London and is a tutor for the Open University and elsewhere. She is interested in saints, sinners and the twists and turns of language. If pushed, she would describe herself as a freelance Anglo-mystic. She edits the online journal Amethyst Review.