For every church I have called home
Alone in a church: the echo of tradition. The reverberation of tears and hope, forged and shed and consolidated among friends, among family. Congregations elongated by the leaking of time.
Purity of focus,
clarity of sound:
I breathe and many others breathe with me. I cloud the empty space, the whole, full, rich space. Add a new colour,
a new echo.
These walls – they know things. Confidential things. Joyous things, crying things, empowering things; screaming for justice things. And they throw sound back at me.
The echo is only me at first, but it grows, and moments refract from jagged directions. Shards collide, collude –
meld, mould into something indistinguishable but beautiful.
A disturbance in the peace that is a church – in the lie that is peace in a church. Both it and I, and my instrument, bear scars. Because we are only human: it and I, and my instrument. We echo, but we are only human.
Photo by Oscar Smith
Listen to the solo flute piece I composed to accompany this poem here.