Hound of Heaven Hymns - Latest works

Powerless Praise

(Commissioned as anthem text by Philip Wilby to celebrate
Tewkesbury Abbey Schola Cantorum’s 50th anniversary)

Beyond our power, paean’s praise
Sings out and to the heart of love –
Who formed the earth and all that is
Whose glory shines from high above –
The radiant sun and lambent moon
Bring light for us in night and day
As fire and rock and air and flood
Reveal and form as nature’s way.
The earth itself is hymn and prayer,
An act of love and art we share,
Where mind and will are free to choose
In common life where all show care.
Our world is rent by self and strife
And strangled by the lure of gain,
Ignoring love in poor and weak,
Inflicting heartless, pointless pain.
Yet glory heals and comes again
As Christ is raised in each new day:
Inviting us to change and grow,
Surrender all – to give and pray.
We sing this song of risk and truth:
Our words in music’s flight now ring
To take us into spirit’s realm
And soar with joy on beauty’s wing.

substantiation (A Camino Quartet 4)

a single silver
line of sound
began the miracle
a psalm of
entrance into
courts unimaginable
the golden stone
and dazzling glory
lit by a love the
spirit of presence
a journey not ended
but embraced in
its finality and
moments exploding
into infinity old
bones once found
now lie beneath
us the cost of
following to an
end that is not
the end the music
spreads and grows
in many ways
focusing us to
receive a gift
that can never
be possessed but
always received
it will lead us
on beyond every
horizon even our
minds and hearts
the stars fall into
the seas and
make this place
holy
compostela

holed below the water

cold and deathly
waters chill my
blood they trickle
flow ready to
overwhelm the
world I can see
it is collision
and separation
that brought it
to mind and heart
then entering my
soul these waters
cannot be staunched
I can float and
sail for only so
long our days
are numbered life
and notion are
not possessions
but gifts fragile
flotillas of a
lover’s art and a
creator’s mind
the source the
spring can never
stop so through
the waters of
death we all must
pass becoming
drops in the ocean
of otherness

dare I ask

did it happen
and did it
matter all things
are thrown into
focus by time
and destroyed by
it is is is was
was is shall be
shall be so many
questions doubts
confusions what
is certain nothing
is certain and
thou art nothing
holding everything
in the mystery
beyond all powers
of self and its
strange ego
centred permanence
yet in strange
and mystical
sacramental
encounter and
transcendence
in the beloved
the beloved’s love
there is eternity
glimpsed tasted
even secured in
loss and grief
in sacrifice and
ecstasy

calibration

does it matter
or make a
difference
a second a
lifetime the
hour the day
divisions matter
to us making
meaning manageable
even though it
may not be
we make our own
place and
significance
but it is all
through my
eyes perhaps
ours I see a
reflection and
not a vision
the beckoning
mystery is
missed we
creep around
it like a
stealthy cat
or a blind
mole we
creep and
burrow but
with the
swagger of
an anthro
pocentric
ruler
beware what
it can’t
measure

A villanelle of the broken heart

Grief’s furnace melts us all as loved ones die,
The flower of beauty blooms in truth and loss –
Our broken hearts must trust as well as sigh.

We rage and question every road we try:
The unknown land encroaches worldly dross.
Grief’s furnace melts us all as loved ones die.

There are no answers clear that we can buy.
Alluring pleasures are a passing gloss:
Our broken hearts must trust as well as sigh.

Love’s freedom is a gift and does not pry –
It gives and risks the seal of death’s emboss.
Grief’s furnace melts us all as loved ones die.

There’s joy as well as pain in tears we cry,
We face the sun as much as tempest’s toss –
Our broken hearts must trust as well as sigh.

There is a leap that lifts us through the sky.
Its source is dark and formed in saviour’s cross:
Grief’s furnace melts us all as loved ones die.
Our broken hearts must trust as well as sigh.

A sonnet of substance

I lean against a fence that cannot hold
My weight, my life or anything I chance:
It is this globe to which we cling so bold,
And nothing lasts – all’s but a fleeting glance.
It sets us up with promises so bright;
A rising sun with happiness ahead
– Is dimmed and dashed by flaws which lead to fright,
The hurts and thorns by which our veins are bled.
Offence and fence are both removed by breath
That fills each life from love’s eternal spring –
And takes us through each hour and then through death
When nature makes our form a lifeless thing.
This myst’ry is a truth so real each day
Which many miss – beguiled, we turn away.

(written on a train between Rochester and London)

changing the points

I never knew I
couldn’t even
imagine it
that the
meaning could
change within
me and I
never knew
at a stroke
loss and death
rewrite the
language and
purpose of my
life love is
grief grief is
love perhaps
not the same
but a world is
redrawn a new
uncharted land
scape seascape
heartscape the
dawn is leached
of glory as is
the setting and
the daily zenith
the golden orb
no longer warms
the inner life
and floods the
view with hope
a different light
shines where I
cannot see some
move on but
most move back
to a reflected
refracted ray
lensed and focused
in the familiar
hopes and visions
for me there is a
new direction
that has to be
taken alone and
strangely not alone
though that is not
the feeling a
momentum of
union though
not recovery
‘tis more a
renunciation
and a shedding
of all certainties
and sureties
that confer
status and
progress here
is a new
beckoning horizon
where all loss
is gain and
restoration is
realised as the
dust settles and
the new direction
is a birthing never
possible in time
the womb of the
clock ticks away
but never
reaches the
destination that
death brings so
triumphantly
changing
everything

A cinquain of sleep

In sleep we find a strange and distant world
Both like and different from the one we know:
Our senses keen against all reason hurled,
Are caught in night time’s tide and undertow
Then tossed ashore when morning’s light does show.

Yet nearly half our lives are spent asleep –
Our worldly strength and status set aside.
We seem to die when lying still so deep,
And all can happen as we rest and slide
Into the realms where laws no longer guide.

Do dreams have meaning for the daylight hours
To challenge all we trust and take for sure?
The sleeping soul encounters mystic powers
That shake our waking truths and so inure –
Including dread and loss we all endure.

For some the night brings terrors of its own
With madness strange and torments near and real:
To wake in sweat and shiver, cold as stone.
The mind is scarred, and fear is all we feel:
The sleeping worlds disturbing truths reveal.

Why, then, the future meets our dreaming night,
Interpreters make sense of stories wild
And tame them into visions clear and bright.
But is our reason overturned, beguiled,
By signs and portents in our dreams compiled?

The greatest gift of sleep is healing rest –
A spring whose waters bubble to restore,
Our weary flesh and minds by cares distressed.
We lie in time to face an open door
Whose threshold beckons us to heaven’s shore.

d day eve 80

in town dining alone
what did they die for
the inconsequential
chatter the pained
silences of over
familiarity eighty
years ago lives
teetered agonisingly
in anxiety and
fear as they faced
the unknown the
known foe the
unforeseeable
tomorrow with
torments and
oblivion yet now
freedom allows
us to dispute
and be rude
swagger and
gossip forget
and care not
yet every life
of unremembered
living is my
neighbour and
my debt my
today this small
time economy
of self–regard
and prepossession
will never free
the world but
lure us onto the
rocks of a
hostile shore only
grace can and
will prevail

draining or feeding

it slinks
stealthily lazily
it boils and
bolts battling
against tide
and wind the
river glistens
glides
glamourising
the light and
the sky filled
with mystery
danger debris
life and death
liquifying and
silting as it
ineluctably heads
for the sea this
magical silvered
stream drains
the heavens
then the earth
but it fills
us with hope
and life like
mercy in the
face of death
the waters are
a food and a
foretaste of the
unstoppable
journey that
takes us all
whither save
into the
greater depths
lost and
purposed by
the rhythm
we dance to
but cannot
count and
halt

seven days

it’s happening
the last week
the one we call
holy Jerusalem
awaits as always
the magnet the
hope the promise
life and death
in a cosmic
focus the dust
the donkey the
palms the
cheering a
dizzying day
of sunshine
that must then
be eclipsed the
meaning lies
beyond control
in the pettiness
of spite and the
bleakness of
disillusion and
betrayal within
these days are the
meal that spans
the grave and the
everyday cruelty
of judgment and
torture amidst
the olive trees the
blood like sweat
of fear and the
apogee of
uncertainty –
your will that
sharpens the
agonies and
darkens the
skies of
forsakenness
until the
spirit is
given up here
is the muddle
of all living
as it spins into
death and all
believing is
waiting

like plastic (A Camino Quartet 2 ~ at the Pilgrims' Mass at Santiago de Compostela)

like plastic heated
in a furnace or by
a blowtorch the
certain shapes distort
and move a change
overwhelms as the
nearness of heaven
sears away the
illusory dimensions
of our mortality even
bread and wine are
incandescent in the
glorious food of
angels where body
and blood escape
into us and live
in us and we
are consumed as
we eat this is
not reason but
the metamorphosis
of faith the oneness
of all and the presence
of heaven open a
vision lit by the
darkness itself no
thing matters there
is a suffusion a
flower opens a
sun rises a new
day dawns in a
softness and mercy
like gentle rain
on the parched
soil the moment
cannot last in
time all is

like plastic

epiphany

magi magic myrrh
make mystery
myth revealing
the missed and
forgotten power
and prayer we
grasp greedily
in misunderstanding
and misplaced self
interest the star
is beyond our grasp
its light hits us
with a gentleness
and strength that
pierces the mind
the heart the
ancient rays are
ever new to us
and beckon
uncover the
change we need –
the life of the
lover born in
Bethlehem

destroy this little
one with all
others around for
threat and
promise challenge
and change beyond
me can and
must be wiped
out whatever it
costs there is no
escape from this
death except the
dream and the
angel where
consciousness is
overcome by love’s
truth and the
journey that
confronts and
triumphs over
every ploy my
selfish heart
employs the
return is the
outset the
onset of
eternity

signature

marks that are mine
only to give share
and seal all I
am is here en
crypted en
ciphered en
ding the contract
of being be
longing en
during en
lightening en
suing the
name that was
spoken by the
love and lord
of all
life not in
water not in
dust but on
your heart

the step (A Camino Quartet 1 ~ a Camino truth)

one of countless
the basis of
all journeys
bruised uncertain
aching resolute
all kinds are
in the taking
first or last or
in between there
is a stampede
not just of boots
and soles there
is one journey
and one step
that makes and
unites us all
every journey is
an outset and
a return into
the beckoning
fading filling
blinding light of
darkness that
lies within
and without
penetrated only
by prayer the
beam of love
the cloak of
darkling God
that opens and
closes everything
at the same
time revealing
that step the
journey where
we are lost

and found

before a pilgrimage

part of a journey

it began before me
and yet I was there
set in the before
not an idea or
a twinkle but
in the heart the
centre of love
which is my
centre and my
essence yet in one
sense I am not I
don’t exist
only we thou
us all and
especially nothing
here is the start
and the end of
every journey
and enterprise
as it is taken
converted
suffused beyond
the recognition of
self and control into
the mists of
mystery

there are particularities
in time location
and distance departure
and destination the
excitement of
anticipation the
immersion of engagement
the senses which delight
and disappoint the
encounters of the
other and the

isolation and apogee
of self a regard
of deception and
discovery a bottomless
void where all can
be won and lost
though the winning
is the loss here is
the alchemy of being
the transformation of
the journey where the
changing scene is
but an illusion of
time and timidity
sore feet soar
feat the road and
ride the wilderness
and the way sing
and cry and
reveal if we dare
but look not with
our I’s but eyes the
sights that seduce
us into the holy
and such a
different power
overshadows with
a radiant light
and we float
float away un
tethered beyond
memories and
meaning into
the start and the
end at the same
time and in
the neverness of
being known

storms and teacups

size and significance
are not the same
even stirring with
a teaspoon never
creates a storm
the gentle vortex
of milky brown
spirals to a smooth
suspension or
colloid depending
on putting the milk
in last or
first there is a
controversy but
no milk war or
cream catastrophe
the chink of bone
china and the rattle
of a saucer neither
is the clarion call
to battle the slap
of the dueller’s glove
the ruined company
ravaged people or
storm tossed wreck
the mental breakdown
terminal diagnosis
the loss and pain
that punctuates all
life the answer is
never one lump or
two darjeeling or
assam loose or bag
below the surface
our hearts break
our worlds fall
apart and no cup
but one can soothe
the knife that
cleaves the bone
the nail that
rends the wrist
only the cup that
catches all our pain
and every death and
it is full full
of blood over
flowing with
love

metaphor and simile

stuff your poetry
with these – metaphor
and simile that is
what goes wrong it
leaves us with the
here and now the
images and sensations
of a world that is
changing changing
so I you we are
never sure and there
lies the blessing
for the precarious
position is the
one open to thee
love which we never
can comprehend
the mediation of
this world in beauty
and images in
sound and sensation
always takes us
takes us out of
all knowledge and
control into the
essence of diffusion
and dissonance where
and when we are
united beyond all
knowing in the
everything that
is nothing

soup of the day

take potassium
sulphur sodium
chlorine and
magnesium dopamine
oxytocin serotonin
and endorphin
it’s time to be
the soup
of the day
the miracle
of material
living through
these ingredients'
flow
the wonder
of feeling
and sensation
blended whisked
cooked seasoned
into you and
me we are but
oxygen carbon
hydrogen and
nitrogen yet in
a recipe becoming
and being
presented for a
purpose and
prepared for
the now of
mysterious
infinite
eternity
bon
appetit

head over heels

that’s love it
is insane to the
rational disruptive
radical revolutionary
there is no gauge or
graph to notate this
passion which rips
and roars through
life like a fire
hungry with an
energy that singes
burns destroys
the certitudes of
calculation and
order this rebel
though is so lovable
that the topsy turvy
madness is worth it
not just in the moment
but off the clock and
in the foreverness of
reckless adventure when
we are claimed by a
new world a kingdom
whose power is most
completely seen in
the tortured crosspiece
and cry of agonised
abandonment and
utter trust this
love is the reality
that recalibrates
our convention
into the normality
of never ever and
ever ever and
I am nothing and
we are all

unframed

the frame that
held your image
has gone holding
capturing all
gone you are free
and I am clutching
nothing all form
vanishes into the
mists of memories
and the chilling
cold archive it
is the breath that
warms and cools
sets us on fire and
takes us to heaven
but where is its
source and savour
when the frame is
gone kiss caress
and our completing
coupling and co
existence collapses
into an unframed
unattainability I
know you’re gone
yet here free but
bound in the breaking
beating heart of
flesh this is not
stillness but the
pounding breakers
bloomed and enhaloed
by the revealing
spume where the
breath is disclosed and
the wind of all being
takes us all
away

A villanelle of time

The future’s gaze makes history of us all,
Our human days are precious and so rare:
We live across a strand of time so small.

There is behind the clock another call
That comes on spirit’s breath as free as air.
The future’s gaze makes history of us all

The voice of love sings out – will never pall,
It gives us joy and more than we can bear.
We live across a strand of time so small.

No storm of life, destructive blast or squall
Can break the power of love’s redeeming care.
The future’s gaze makes history of us all.

In moment’s plight we often seem to fall,
Yet light and rescue come in heartfelt prayer.
We live across a strand of time so small

Our maker reaches out beyond time’s wall:
Let go of fear and self, risk all and dare!
The future’s gaze makes history of us all,
We live across a strand of time so small.

pilgrims

the journey the
path the route
the destination
all is hidden
until the step
and the scene
melt into a
mesmeric
transparency
pilgrims see
through the
material and
the concrete
for it is there
that the
pilgrimage
begins and
ends whatever
we see there
is another
realm read
by the heart
the inner eye
and throne of
sensibility
and value
it is a burnished
orb of illumination
a lodestar and
magnetic field
the escape from
time the
compass point
that leads us
into eternity
suffusing each
breath we
take with
a wind that
fills the
sails of
meaning
urging and
propelling
us over
the seas of
temporality
towards a
mist a
mystery of
inner light
the clarity
of the darkness
that subdues
the desperate
need for power
the control
the knowledge
the clock
and the grave
the pilgrimage
never stops
because it
never began
and will never
end all our
dust and dominion
will perish in
nothing the
annihilation of
grace the opening
of the road
which leads
into the oblivion
of love’s
ravishing
revealing
ecstasy of
delight

take the
first and
last steps
at the
same
time
pilgrims

finisterre

the land has gone
colliding melting
falling the surges
of energy and love
where everything
falls away and
in the mystic spume
and thundering
breakers a new world
unfolds within where
earth and heaven touch
in cosmic intimacy
and promise the rocks
of ages and hopes of
hearts the probing
mind and restless
soul crash into
the infinite drops
of rainbow lit
mist so that the
newness and the
eternal may change
transform transfix
us into the
mystery that is
always there and
yet rarely seen
our journey’s end
our home
our finisterre

la danse atomique

the light fantastic
it is like
another language
the dance of
the atoms in
silence music
cacophony
and many
tongues a
chaos ordered
by the
unknowable
in which we
as part of
creation’s
choreography
spin and
pirouette leap
and fly through
time finite
dust animated
in a unique
story identifiable
for a season and
then refashioned
beyond sight
and feeling
knowledge and
matter the
inner meaning
translated
captured and
freed by the
rhythm and
ground that
is source and
fundament to
our everything
and nothing
the atoms will
rest but the
dance goes
on

A vilanelle of the Camino (A Camino Quartet 3)

The scallop beams and beckons on the Way –
The walk is long through hills and streams and trees,
Each limping striding step is ours to pray.

Our senses stirred by Nature’s power to sway,
Sweet eucalyptus floats upon the breeze,
The scallop beams and beckons on the Way.

Each pilgrim’s path is filled by fears to slay –
Our hearts and minds are burdened by our pleas,
Each limping striding step is ours to pray

Yet grace prevails as penitents we pay:
Love’s beauty bursts to force us to our knees.
The scallop beams and beckons on the Way

An offering of our lives to God we lay:
With clouds of incense fade our certainties;
Each limping striding step is ours to pray

The road leads on to endless night and day,
Our journeys end with rocks o’erwhelmed by seas;
The scallop beams and beckons on the Way,
Each limping striding step is ours to pray.

winding and unravelling

the snared garment
the frayed cloth
undoes the beauty
and purpose of the
loom that’s life
– and loss it is
the everyday and
commonplace but
asks a question is
love the weaver
or the rag merchant
the strange and
disturbing answer
lies in life giving
death in the
ultimate oxymoron
that frees us from
everything we wear
and clothes us even
our flesh our
minds only the
spirit can die
and live unravel
and wind us in
through the golden
gate far from the
threads of our
material reality
it is there that
all our worlds
and our living
are remade
the miracle that
starts in time

overcoat

the sun is shining
the world is at play
laughter fills the air
yet I am wearing an
overcoat night and
day in season and
out I have no clothes
for this world only
a cloak a covering
of that constant loss
and disfigurement
that scars those
who are left
behind

the hook of reality

there is a reverberation
outside of the material
order in which sympathy
realises presence in absence
stretching out flaming out
from body and mind into the
reality of the wholly other
the holy a shining darkness
and all–enveloping nothing
that is everything beyond
things and matter and
ideas a singularity is
claimed and won and
possessed by another in
the journey to eternity and
the hook of our sensibilities
catches the glimpse the
glance the chance of an
intimation which knows no
end I speak because I
know not understand
drawn aroused awakened
to the real realm over
which I have no control
only an invitation to
seek to enter to sing
and rejoice and never
never alone it is the
threshold of heaven
breathe in the other
exhale the self belong
and do not possess
the hook of reality is
not an anchor nor
a nail it is the
open palm and
heart and mind that
lays down life to
receive it no end
no beginning just
the kiss of adoration
and rapture of
being truly truly
loved

canopy

under the shadow
the shadow of love’s
eternal love’s
wings – green then
russet before winter’s
stark spikes – protection
and benison of a
material journey
writ in dust be
tokening the on
going of grace’s
capture be
stowing glory peace
the everything
we never can
measure because
it is the invisible
eternal of the
nothing we fear
because we can
never know it we
can only belong as
we live and lie
protected by
the living canopy
of spirit

seasons

which season
is for real
insofar as
it sees us
flourish
and where
to start in
entering the
cycle that
engulfs the
year of each
life spring
is the stirring
the start and
springboard of
renewal and
hope breaking
and budding
with growth
and fertility
a greening
and glimmer
of what is to
come yet the
summer which
follows burns
with colour
and excess
a balmy
blousy breezy
apogee of
promise over
topping into
over blown
bronzing and
billowing of
autumn fiery
fruitful and
fulsome in
its decay and
decline into
the sterile
stillness of
winter
die back
dormant
frigidity of
frost and frozen
filling and
freezing our
human living
with fear and
fortitude
relieved by
the release
of the spring
as we are
propelled again
from the
vicious to
victorious
virtuous
cycle
are we the
season or the
seasoned the
traveller or the
road through
which reality
passes

the four winds

why four why
corners on the
earth our sphere
our home is
enfolded by the
air and its
movement caressing
blasting billowing
piercing carrying
sweeping in
spiring
from north and
south from east
and west they
bring us weather
veering and dying
beyond our
powers soft sultry
notus and cruel
chilling boreas
bracing bitter eurus
and wild and
warm zephyrus
you blow as a
benison and a
beating reminding
our forgetfulness
of spirit’s constant
work guiding
reproving renewing
and dying touch
our inner life and
bring us to your
source blow our
bluster into the
haven of heaven