Believers tell me that their God never fails to mourn a death. He mourns each thing that once drew breath whether man or humble worm, elephant or pesky germ, whether warthog or a cod that’s had its chips and run its term. Mourning’s all the same to God. Even cabbages, I’m told, each blade of grass and leaves grown gold are mourned on high by grieving God; plus every pea in every pod when slipping down a glutton’s throat gets mourned a little, each by rote. My word! God has a lot to do; is His...

One by one they fall, these people I have known, or loved, or merely liked – some far removed from worlds in which I lived; some with whom I laughed have also gone. To where I do not know. Oh, you departed: please come back and laugh again so I might laugh with you while railing at what’s yet to come. Tomorrow? Or perhaps a distant day? Who knows? Some knew; but some did not, and left abruptly, shock or sadness trailing in their wake – good friends or vague acquaintances who, turning pages...

This original poem, ‘Missa’, by Matthew Robinson, follows the structure of the Catholic Mass – moving through Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Osanna, Benedictus and Agnus Dei – but instead of a sacred ritual, it presents a very raw, earthly encounter with suffering, helplessness and aftermath. Missa Kyrie From fifty yards away I laughed to see a creature acting daft. Along the road a tabby cat was prancing like an acrobat and somersaulting everywhere. Perhaps the sun and fresh spring air, the...