Poetry
Quiet Prayer
Rupert Loydell
Quiet prayer
It was not a quiet prayer. When it came, it was wrenched from
him, in anger or pain, possibly both, but it was definitely a shout
not a whisper, was certainly something directed at god, certainly
heartfelt and demanding, absolutely sure of its reasons and
concerns. It was not a quiet prayer, it was a scream of grief
ripped out of the night, pain from hearing the worst. It was primal
and personal, a shout about being alone and not knowing what to do,
a request for a compass, a map and survival rations. But mostly a
demand for love. It was not a quiet prayer and it whispered its way
around the village, out into the world. Elsewhere, on their knees,
others were shocked at the raw hurt, the need; took prayer upon
themselves, spent time begging for mercy and pleading for his soul.
It was not a quiet prayer, it was prayer nourished by dissolution
and despair, a loud eccentric mash-up of energy and anger,
questions and desire, despair spun loose into the world to see
where it would go and if anyone would answer.
Rupert Loydell