so still he stands

strong arms open wide

tracing with his fingers

things long buried inside

when did you become so wise

where did you learn such trust

making known the hidden things

but not quite enough

excerpt from “hidden things”

Good Friday. A cross words, cross-wards day.

He was not two yet and his mother had taken him to church. They were sat upstairs by themselves, glassed in, hearing but not able to be heard.

Downstairs holy men spoke holy words. Or so was thought. A picture of a cross projected onto a beautifully bare wall. Upstairs was an earthly mess: toys and half-eaten sandwiches, a mother straining to hear…

Listen, he seemed to say, his stubborn little body pressed firm against glass seen sometimes to contain. Listen, his strong arms held out as if reflecting a two-thousand year old image.

What truths are hidden in the little ones? Who put them there? Who, if any, will listen? When will what is hidden become known – known enough so as to put out all fear?