Hol Hermitage - Geoffrey Groom

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Hol Hermitage



I lie, and all around
the symbiotic sounds of family:
Fresh caught fish fed, coffeeground,
sorrowed united in a Saturday Tjeldsund solace.
Cold air promises sky-bound surrealisms
and stars suspended over snow-capped summits
await fish-loaded morning boats.

The moments flow in ebbs and floods
of memories, pleasantries and spiritual mysteries:
and beguiling smiles of new-coming generations
punctuate the silences of contemplative recollections,
as feelings fight with logic to command supplication
like as majestic mountains master the horizon,
touching heaven,faith's fingers seeking salvation.

Bright light bathes the white wood walls
and strings of shoreline lights call
the sea-born wanderers to home.
As there another lies, within the earth-clad tomb
bedecked with long-travelled flowers of friendship.
From all of Norway, even Spain, they've come
in respectful homage to a course now run.

The new made, well displayed, spire
keeps silent sentinel upon this saddened bower.
Strong, stark stones foretell the fragile fragments
of individualised wanderings over this delicious earth.
Records, speechless stories starting at the birth,
infuse the air and whisper wondrous words
of uniting, parting, re-embracing lovings.

Yet, it is the beautified stillness amidst
the rich autumnal shades, not yet enshrined in mist,
that beckon every faithful soul to share
the harmony of God's eternal, endless, care.
And thus they rest, they sleep, they wait upon
the mysteries of transformation in the traveller's dawn:
the all-conquering consolation of salvation's sun.

This life is not a trial to be endured
with pain-wracked hope or frustrated faith lured;
See now, have we not all received
these momentous acts of caring, sharing,
flowers of friendship, even if sorrow leafed,
have smiled upon our sojourn, though it were brief,
with refreshings rays of respectful giving.

And what were these friendship flowers
if not torn tokens of appreciation
for a life lived to it's best
within the limitations of emotion's fjords.
Those hidden waters of suppressed ambitions,
those little stormy seas, whirlpools of wantings,
that stressed integrity or contradicted compassion.

We cannot judge the sea by surface foam,
nor really count the miles, as human spirits roam
in search of fleeting flesh-clad expressions
of the deeply hidden motivations.
We can but gaze, in peace punctuated perplexity,
upon the diamond-like dicotomy,
the multi-faceted faces of love's mystery.

Perchance within our tear-glazed gazing
we may glimpse the triumphs of that love;
and though the winter storms of snow-like hurtings
may oft cloud, hide, or blanket our beliefs
with pain's wind-blown drifts of disappointments,
Even so, we know the central theme, the spiritual truth
that brought us to this quieted internment.
.... continued

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