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.