Going Home

("Out of the sun's dazzle, somebody spoke my name." - Charles Causely)

After all this time, it won't be easy

going home.

I'd left him guiltily back then. He'd given

everything I asked without a word.

He'd sent no one to check up on my life.

In no time, I'd gone through the legacy.

Sure, it's tough now making ends meet:

I'd be better off emptying the slops

in the old home.

And so I'm heading back.

It's heavy going, the last hundred yards.

I tell myself 'What pride have I to lose?'

Somebody's coming toward me through the sun.

What if it's him, trying to head me off?

(I sent no news, but he must surely know).

I stand still, worthless, steeled to meet

the shame -

the accusing finger,

the condemning voice.

The sun is in my eyes.

Blinded, I hear my name.

But what is this? I'm in my father's arms.

He holds me close. There must be some mistake.

His tears mix with mine like warm rain;

he's calling everyone to celebrate.

Why? Why?

I still don't understand. I grope for light.

Now suddenly my mind swims with his vision.

Deep beneath the mess of what I was

I learn his sight, I'm seeing what he sees.

Something bright, untouched by hurt,

unblemished in the sun -

something I thought had no right to exist -

is growing through the rubble of the wrong:

chosen, cherished, unsuppressible,

something morning clean,

unsung.

Beneath every immoral life

a lily inches up into the spring....