Officium by John Burnside

If therefore thou shalt not watch, I will
come on thee as a thief, and thou shalt not
know what hour I will come upon thee - 
Revelation 3:3

It comes to us, after a time,
that there's no forever:

chiffchaff in the hedge, a breath of wind,
that wave of longing in the summer grass

for something other
than the world we've seen;

and how we've waited for years for an event
that couldn't happen:

footprints in the dew
and adsit nobis

sudden in our hearts
like summer rain.

Spititus Sancti: crickets, thistledown,
a wave of longing in the blood-lit dark

for what we are
beyond the things we seem;

and quiet, like the ceasing of a drum,
this penitence by halves is scant relief,

if somewhere in the house, unheard, unseen,
eternity comes creeping, like a thief.