Sitting at the table Sunday evening
after the children had fallen asleep
you took my despair in you hands,
held me differently, new touch
after twenty years. You were angry.
Afraid to think I might give up.
There were no services, no physician,
you resorted to Holy Communion
delivered by a desperate husband
with a poppadom and apple juice,
then anointed me with cooking oil.
Your faith set me free.
( Paula Matthews is a poet and mental health champion currently writing therapeutically.)
The Beautiful Space-