Speaking in Tongues

Speaking in Tongues
Emma Kemp

That summer, recovering from obsessions
of condemnation, I learnt to pray 
in tongues, a months-old word
of prophecy, given by friends,
held out as a promise of freedom.

I did it whenever I thought no-one
was listening; furtively, away
from acharismatic housemates.
In my bedroom, a hand pressed
earnestly to the party wall,
I managed an arcane blessing
over the neighbours.

I did it at Launde, out in a field
at twilight, my unpractised tongue
wrapping itself around unknown
syllables, marvelling at them. 
Finally certain no-one could hear, 
I called out praises in the hearing of the sheep 
and the wheat; laughed, cajoled 
them to dance and praise with me,
exotic phrases lengthening into the dusk.

It was more earthy than ecstasy - the air
sweet with hay and dung, delicate  
with the cool out-breathing of the trees.
I was never unconscious of the distant 
farmhouse; its machinery, its windows, 
its lamplight. Anxiety curdled, congealing

at the edges of euphoria, giving
energy to competing impulses:

Stay with the moment.

Get back before dark.

The survival instinct won. Leaving shibboleths 
to settle among the sheep, I tripped
back across darkening fields
to the security of Launde,
to warmth, and sleep, and silence.

---

Emma Kemp
Poet

Photography by Beth Cath Key