A Spring House Mass
A Spring morning, delicate young daffodils and emerging bluebells against the rough black soil. Pairing crows building towering nests amongst bare budding branches while chirping songbirds carol their Spring mating rituals.
We walk into the chill crispness of an early March morning, walking along an uneven grass centred lane. The brown stillness of winter slowly melting away into the gentle thieving green of Spring. Slowly easing loose, the grasp of Demeter's grief.
An old man of eighty fumbles on the formal garments of prayer. With liver spotted hands he prepares bread and wine, and a child counts the blessed few gathered to pray.
Another child gazes in wonder as in a country kitchen the cosmos is brought home; as the altar of Golgotha is transubstantiated onto the kitchen table; the starched white cloth transfigured like Tabor across time and space.
Why do you wear that scarf of purple asks the child theologian? Leaving the adults trying to dance like angels on a pinhead while night lights twinkle in the morning gloom.
Broken bread and crushed grape - gifted once more by old hands - the fruits of peace which emerge from the harsh pruning of life.
Small few gather in gratitude.
And a child sits in wonder, watching the dancing birds and asks why?