Peter’s last session with a counsellor

The dream I told you about in our first session –

a sword in my hand, on the grass a severed ear –

I see now was part of my unresolved anger

at the priests, and despair that their maids

and servants, their admirers and hired men

had heard my denials and crowed at my fear.

The one I abandoned – whom they abused –

boldly testified and then forgave even those

who didn’t want to know what happened.

He rose up, unrecognisable to friends

whilst I was still running, unclothed, ashamed,

afraid he’d return, revealing his scars.

He is gone now, ascended to higher things.

Sometimes, counsellor you remind me of him

as a wise gardener, a hiker walking my journey,

a beach-comber calling me when I was tired

to sit and watch waves by a fire, though you are

requiring a fee, constrained by the hour.

He said I am a rock and for his truth

I will stand immovable; yet I will be

a Galilean seabird, feet plopping

on the unfathomable; I will settle

in the temple, preach to priests and hired men

and forgive myself by forgiving them.

2025