At Gerasa

At Gerasa, by the lake,
the grassy weeds struggle for a foothold
in the stony earth among the tombs.
On occasion, and in season,
a determined flower will triumph,
flashing red or yellow in defiance.

At Gerasa, by the lake,
among those tombs,
one took root like a weed.
Naked, wild and captive to madness,
he regularly cast off the shackles and constraints
imposed by nearby townsfolk,
among whom he had once been numbered
as neighbour and kin.
A challenge to good order, comfort and faith,
they had been relieved
when he chose to make his home
half-way between the living and the dead.


At Gerasa, by the lake
one came; human,
but touched with his own strange brand
of divine insanity.
(It is often said that it takes one to know one.)
Beyond the crazed ranting wildness
he saw the red flashing flower of defiant life;
loved him,
and spoke the needed words.

© Ken Rookes 2013