heart of the Labyrinth, The

I thought when I got there

there would be something special:

a statue of Mary

infant in arms:

a miraculous rosebush

one golden bud on it

always;

St. Francis with real birds

perching on his wounds, marble hands

while a palpitation of butterflies

shakes the wild flowers

frothing round the edge.

But when I got there

no aesthetic thrills

bestowed by art or nature

only the shock of desolation:

a small path of mowed-down meadow

raw, rough, empty

as near nothing as makes

no matter.

I stood on the path

where it entered the circle

aching for the right

to step into that emptiness

filled with God.

* Roussel Sargent, a native of England and a University of London Ph.D., taught English at Mills College in Oakland, California, until her retirement in 1985.

Copyright Anglican Theological Review, Inc. Winter 2003
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