Hen Ficerdy
Follow the muddy, bumpy lane,
Turn left at the end and left again,
Through the meadow, across the stile,
Then continue on for half a mile.
Cross the road at the ‘Dog and Grouse’
And soon you’ll see a creepy house.
That house is the largest around here
And instills in many a sense of fear
With its dark grey walls of weathered stone,
Hidden where the ivy’s grown,
Under a roof of sharp black slate
Which bows beneath the chimney’s weight.
No flowers or plants adorn its grounds,
Just weathered gravestones on grassy mounds,
Nettles and brambles tied in tangles
With glittering webs in all the angles,
And beyond the bare-boughed silver birch
An ornate and ancient Gothic church.
Push open the heavy gates of iron
Guarded by a fierce stone lion.
Follow the path of weeds and stones
Through the yard of buried bones.
See the windows, dark and deep.
Wonder what secrets they keep?
Up the steps - you’re getting near
To seeing why I sent you here.
Summon all your courage before
You grasp the knocker on the door.
For as the handle begins to turn
A special lesson you will learn.
See, inside that house of stone and slate
A warm fire burns within the grate
And a family laughs and plays and sings
And speaks of love and joyful things.
The mother kind, the father strong,
The children happy all day long.
Though big and black and bleak it seems
This is a home of happy dreams
Where you will be welcome if you say
That I have sent you on your way.
So cast away your fear and pride,
And don’t judge on what you see outside.
Hen Ficerdy is Welsh for Old Vicarage. I wrote this poem in recognition of the many large, ancient vicarages, often next to graveyards. I lived in two of them.
What Makes Christmas Special?
Could it be the lovely tree
All trimmed with lights so prettily?
Or baby’s giggle as she spies
Presents of assorted size
All wrapped in shiny paper bright –
It truly is a glorious sight!
Could it be the falling snow,
Or Santa’s jolly “Ho ho ho”?
The Christmas specials on TV,
The smiles of people dear to me,
Delicious food piled on my plate,
All surely do make Christmas great!
Maybe it’s that glorious night
Of carols sung by candlelight,
Or having precious family time
And laughing at the pantomime,
Or cards from those both far and near
Who send their love this time of year.
It’s not the tree, the gifts, the snow
Which serve to warm my spirit so.
But thinking of the wondrous birth
Of Christ our Saviour, come to Earth
A precious babe that glorious day
Who came to take our sins away.
Clothed in Covenants
Devout Mormons wear a special white garment underneath their clothing as a reminder of covenants they have made in the Temple. Many people are confused about this sacred apparel and its purpose. This poem is based on “The Cross in my Pocket” by Mrs Verna Mae Thomas.
I wear special clothes on my body
A simple reminder to me
Of the fact that I will keep covenants
No matter where I may be.
These garments are not magic,
Nor are they a good luck charm
They are not meant to protect me
From every physical harm.
They’re not for identification
For all the world to see
But simply an understanding
Between my Saviour and me.
When I dress each bright new morning
In garments fresh and white
They serve that day to remind me
To remain clean in His sight.
They remind me, too, to be modest
In my words, my deeds, my dress
And to strive to serve Him better
That others I may bless.
When I’m feeling sad or despairing,
Or in a scary place,
These garments remind me that always
I’m encircled about by His grace.
And when my path seems rocky
And I feel all hope is gone
I remember promises given
The day I first put them on.
I wear this symbol of purity,
Hidden away from sight,
Because in the blood of the Lamb of God
My garments and sins are washed white.
So I wear special clothes on my body
Reminding no one but me
That Jesus Christ is Lord of my life
And He has set me free.