I first met Jesus in the Scottish highlands.
I was sitting in my car, admiring the sheep-dotted moor,
When this bearded man-boy appeared. In his hands
A sheaf of grubby paper; around his body a poor
Grimy raincoat. He was shod with gym-shoes.
He wished to draw my portrait; I replied shirt-
ily. Later, on the road, he thumbed a lift. I refus-
ed, avoiding him for the second time. Transfigured with hurt,
He turned up his hands and threw back his head. Year-
s passed: another encounter, on the posh express-
Train to Vienna. No picture, he was disguised with the biggest rump
I ever wedged against. But as he re-appear-
ed from the bog, trouser-soiled and with a bloody finger, I guess-
ed at once, and humbly gave a plaster to this paschal lump.
I was sitting in my car, admiring the sheep-dotted moor,
When this bearded man-boy appeared. In his hands
A sheaf of grubby paper; around his body a poor
Grimy raincoat. He was shod with gym-shoes.
He wished to draw my portrait; I replied shirt-
ily. Later, on the road, he thumbed a lift. I refus-
ed, avoiding him for the second time. Transfigured with hurt,
He turned up his hands and threw back his head. Year-
s passed: another encounter, on the posh express-
Train to Vienna. No picture, he was disguised with the biggest rump
I ever wedged against. But as he re-appear-
ed from the bog, trouser-soiled and with a bloody finger, I guess-
ed at once, and humbly gave a plaster to this paschal lump.
(4.3.1999)
