Sunday, 3 November 2019

Finest Hour

A local paper has a monthly poetry competion, hosted by someone who's supported our writing group in the past (and who once awarded me 2nd place in a poetry reading competition), and we thought we'd tackle next month's subject in one of our sessions. The title was 'My Finest Hour' and the only rule was no more than 20 lines. This was my entry, which I know didn't win but I've been promised a mention in the next edition.

There was one hour in my life
alive awake conscious
when I held back all my criticisms
of everything that had ever happened
and of everything I had ever done
of every person I hadn't liked
and even more of those I did,

that hour held a silent space
where critical thoughts shrank
in their own mirrored sight
the past and I no matter nor consequence
everything and everyone borne by their merits
not by origin, symmetry nor familiarity,

outwardly I truly listened
each consideration untethered from what had been
and inward I forgave each misstep
a divine shift towards empathy compassion and truth,
even to myself.

That rare hour maybe was my finest.

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