Whitsunday

In high-modern times
the church in which I was nurtured
and searched for faith,
neatly packaged Pentecost
and placed her in a box
labelled Whitsunday.


Whitsunday was bleached crisp white,
ordered and safe;
free of surprises,
like the era through which we moved.
By the time Whitsunday arrived
the wonder of Easter
had long passed.
Whitsunday was orderly, polite, tidy,
and waited patiently
for her annual fifteen minutes;
some years we forgot her.


One day, unannounced,
Pentecost, gale-like, roaring;
burst from her quiet carton,
crimson, wild
and burning with divine indignation.
She sent Whitsunday packing.


We’re still not sure about Pentecost
and what she might do next;
we tremble a little
each time that we pray:
Come, Holy Spirit!


© Ken Rookes