In my Pentecostal days

I was a connoisseur of tongues 

The muttering and spluttering

Whispered hissing

Glutinous rolling 

And harsh declamations 

Baptised, I thought

In the Holy Spirit

After much experimental mumbling 

I prayed for Gaelic

But all that came was something 

Vaguely Italian 

Until I realised it was that bit on Abbey Road

Where St Paul croons like Dean Martin

Here Comes the Sun King

Quando para mucho mi amore de felice corazon…

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There was a Charismatic  comedian

Though he called himself a preacher

Who had a glossolalia routine

His tongues were like Bernard Manning

Shouting darts scores

His point was their public lack of meaning 

How language was lost

Without translation

At least I think that’s what he meant

I had trouble with his accent 

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And  that fierce prophet

Too tiny for most lecterns

Who wielded the Holy Ghost 

Like an invisible sword

Dare to disagree

And scary curses flowed

In English, broken by the Lord

With strange foreign asides

Healing was possible at his tender hands

Plagues of the heart and mind

Also a speciality 

I watched him once, walk in woodland

Listening for the personally divine 

Darkness fluttering around

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What became of him, of them?

In heaven now, maybe

Learning Norn?

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Now I wake on the forest edge 

Is it God

Who speaks and sings?

Sonorous and sly

Furiously amused

Splitting ears

Hilariously 

Symphonically

Crooning, preaching

Refusing

To countenance the night

The Holy Spirit rings and sings 

Soaring and scolding 

Tearing through the darkness 

With audible light

Be quiet, Robin Redbreast

Loudmouth!

Shut up

Let me sleep!

But I can’t stop laughing.

And with the break of dawn

Shut up he does 

Enter blackbirds, starlings, doves

Ravens, crows and gulls

Sparrows, finches, and that King of Birds

Troglodytes Troglodytes Zetlandicus

Chorusing the day

With a Babel of love