He wove skilfully his stories,
cleverly fashioning those tricky endings,
unexpectedly sharp and sticky,
that squeezed themselves through
religion’s carefully crafted defences,
and made us all squirm.
After a time we began, in small ways,
to catch on.
Just glimpses at first,
and then, something more,
remote but shining,
the merest of possibilities.
With every tale of forgiveness,
every word of grace and love,
and every hand reached out
in friendship and welcome,
it swelled into a nearly graspable thing
that we called hope.
Hope in the divine one’s goodness.
Hope that the world might be renewed.
Hope that freedom will be born,
justice might prevail and that peace should reign.
Hope that fighting would stop,
that fear might be vanquished,
and that the final word be love.
But we had hoped.
© Ken Rookes 2014