The Feast

.

Red fruits and dark-skinned olives piled high

Thick cuts of meat are steaming to the sky

The soft bread oven-warm beside the oil

As grape-globes show between the chinks of foil

.

Salami slices stacked in tidy rows

And slowly the rich scent of goat-cheese shows

The gentle sweetness and the salty bite

That draw your senses into pure delight

.

A richer fettuccini never known

With golden coils of pasta drenched in sun

And thickly sprinkled cheese with silent pledge

Of buttery contentment past its edge

.

The chili with the beans and meat-sauce drowned

The towering sandwiches piled high around

The cakes and cookies heaped up near the end

And chairs drawn round the fire awaiting friends

..

The rows of tables lined up on the green

Arranged with linen covers white and clean

To welcome all the guests beneath the tree

In perfect joy of warm community

.

The banquet-Lord calls for His subjects true

And says, “All things are ready. Come into

The joy of your Master!” But as one

They make excuse for why they cannot come

.

His face is darkened, and His voice is low:

“To all the streets and highways, quickly go

And bring in all the halt, the poor, the blind.”

His servants hasten all these ones to find

.

The doors are closed, the banqueters are there

As each one wonders at the sumptuous fare –

But wondrous more the Host whose Name they bless –

And murmurs soft, “Lord, why was I a guest?”

.

Jeremy Vogan, Autumn, Year of our Lord 2022

Photo Credit: Whitby Abbey, http://www.english-heritage.org.uk

.