Night was falling as we made
our weary journey home.
For some of us, darkness had
already come, could sink no deeper,
although the stranger who
fell in step with us along the way
had somehow shed a little light
into our deeply distressed minds;
and so of course we invited him,
then when he seemed to hesitate,
urged him to stay with us instead
of travelling on alone into the dark.
I hastened to put a simple supper
on the table, then joined my husband
and our guest, hungry to receive
more of his illuminating wisdom.
We watched, as hands
took our daily bread, prayed
over it, giving thanks, before
he broke and shared it with us.
Then he raised the cup (the one
that had passed down through
several generations of my family)
and blessed the wine it held.
I remember the cup was filled right
to the brim, and as it caught
the last rays of that sad day’s light,
it glimmered, so that both of us
gasped in recognition, rose
to embrace our beloved friend,
so recently lost, now found again
– but he had gone.
Never would bread and wine appear
ordinary again, or Cleopas and I
run seven miles at speed to share
life-changing news
which travelled on ahead, far faster
than human legs could carry anyone,
to meet us with astonishment and joy
as we were entering Jerusalem.