Love Me Tender

The weather forecast a
Short sentence, a précis,
Summing up the struggles
Of the atmosphere as
‘Gentle rain will fall’
On the summer-baked soil
It will fall, until suppertime
Until the earth is softened
By the tender rain

At school, now
I am five, maybe six, and
On the art table lies a
Block of ice-cold plasticine,
A pleasant pink slab
Of resistance, looking at me
Too hard, so it thinks, but
Patience wins, fashioning
Long warm snakes

One day I may purchase
A kitchen tool,
With mountain range stipples
And bring my weighted swings
Down upon inert meat and
Those tight unyielding fibres…
What is this wooden mallet?
An enemy or a friend?
A tenderiser; that’s its name.

Stay Your hand, Lord
Stow Your word of
Hammering love divine
‘Case I end up pummelled,
Destined, like Your Son, to say
‘I have come to do Your will’
Oh God! Ignore my prayer
Listen not to my sunbaked
Ice-cold resistance

Here I am…
Raise your holy hand
Swing Your weight
Until I am fully done
Until I taste as I should
Until I take Your shape
Come like gentle rain
Defeat my sun-hardened
Soil. Love me tender.

Amen.