The old man

Grey wind races across the field,
Chasing lines carved deep in damp soil,
Churned and hacked by plough and harrow.
Year on year, turning the surface, Scraping and shaping,
Scribing purpose on the land.
Rain follows wind,
Drawn and driven,
Blown over ridges,
Filling in ditches,
Soaking the dirt.
Standing alone in the face of the weather,
An old man of the earth.
Battered and scarred,
Twisted and ripped.
Once he stood with others,
Young and wild,
Bright and beautiful.
They raced for the air,
Reached for the light,
Laughed as they spun and they stretched.
Their finger tips touched,
Brushed and caressed,
Then bound together.
But they are now gone,
No longer as one,
He stands alone.
He remembers the years,
He feels where they were,
He misses their shade,
He is not proud that he has survived,
He does not relish the solitude,
Or wear it pinned to his trunk.
The old man remembers,
As winter beats his flesh,
And summer bleaches his skin.
He remembers.
He takes a deep breath,
Drawing in the scent of his place,
Inhaling its songs and its stories.
And he knows they are here,
Down in the ground he can feel them,
He knew all along they were there.
Standing alone, just like him,
Feeling alone, just like him,
Never alone, just like him.

Murmuration

Wind song plays amongst the trees,

accompanying the starling’s waltz,

two by two, they join.

Becoming one,

moulded in motion,

Dusks rosy sun dips as the avian ball,

paints a lullaby in the stilling sky.

Low whirls of mist,

emerging from the ground,

weaving between fence and hedge,

waiting for the dancers,

to fade back into the woods.

Flowing dark greeted now by the owls cry,

sentinel of the night.

The trees settle in,

shrug off the day,

and all is done.

The Rain Fell

(written to the prompt “give colour to something colourless – emotions, senses, etc.)

The rain fell,

it leached the colour from the sky

Gauze upon gauze

Shifting the depth of the world

The distant hillsides now hardly visible

Once what was sharp and full of colour

Now beyond my horizon

Layers of damp grey air

Dripping between me and the end

The destination once trimmed with purple promise

Now become the space between my feet

The moment distilled

Into each single movement

Singular and repetitive

Concentration honed inside my hood

My breath the extent of the world

Only here, only now

again and again

Till journeys done

Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

Three loads I carry

Three loads I carry as I walk,
Three packs I balance on my back.
Each one I meticulously packed,
Each I carefully stowed and strapped down hard.
Not one I felt I could leave behind,
Not one could I do without.
Three weights I feel dig in my shoulder,
Each one present and distinct,
Pulling me in different directions,
Making my way harder than it seems,
Causing me to miss my step and trip,
Yet often they feel as one,
So tightly are they bound together,
So long have I carried them.
At times they feel alien jabbing and ripping me,
At times they are part of me.
They are things of great value to me,
Things that make me who I know I am,
Things that give me place and time,
Things that though at time they give me pain,
Are me.

One great sack carries all I hold of worth,
All that I think I love,
All that I hope never to lose.
How could it be possible to leave this bag?
I could no more cut off my arm or leg!
This I bind closest to me,
I wear it next to my back,
This load gives me stability,
It sures me when I feel feeble.
It is my frame, yet still it is heavy.

One carries all my certainty,
That which I have no doubt is ordained.
In each part a word or thought,
A prayer or poem which gives me purpose,
It is what keeps me on.
It holds my map, my itinerary.
How could I abandon all this,
For whom should I walk,
Which way should I go,
How would I know, how could I be sure?

One load binds all three,
It wraps around the other two,
At times holding them,
At times pushing them sharply into my skin.
My fears I carry in this last bag,
My fear of losing the others,
My fear of walking alone,
My fear of being lost.
My fear of being pointless,
Of going nowhere, of being no-one.

But,
All this speaks of me; my loves, my faith, my fears.
My scale of what is valuable,
My sense of what is good and right,
My insecurity.
I am content in each step and yet I count each mile,
I want to pass, to savour each view,
To go the places I could not plan to visit,
I want in each to leave something of me, something good behind.
Somehow, I don’t know how,
I know I must risk leaving parts of me by the road.
I must give up my load,
Lay down my pack.
Not in wild abandon,
But in faithful surrender.

Photo from https://unsplash.com/@tychoa

Pentecost

Poem

Waiting, Waited,

Flame Breather, Life Teaser,
Sweet Essence, Hard Presence,
Pulsing Blood, Sweeping Flood
Storm Force, Water Source,
Deepest Kiss, Draining Bliss,
Motivator, Love Creator,
Hearts Gripped, Conventions Ripped,
Fire Poured, Winds Roar,

Whisper, Whisper,

Blown Upon, Blown Away,
Burning Up, Burning Out,

Baraka, Ruach, Shanti, Shalom,
Life Spirit, Holy Spirit, Spirit.

Prayer

Kindle in us a love for the wild beauty of the creation of God.
Fan the flame of passion for community.
Heat us to white hot with yearning for culture to be transformed
And people to know the God who breathed life into them and the world they walk upon.
Spark in us a fire which rages with all consuming heat against injustice, oppression and evil.
Bright flame, for whom Aidan of Lindisfarne was named,
Passed on from generation to generation,
From winter to winter,
From day to day,
Set alight in us the love of the Christ who walks in the world,
Blow on us with the wind which filled the sails of the Perigrinati and spread the Gospel throughout the world.

Photo by Thomas Bormans on Unsplash

Unlocking

Unlocking, seeking, push my fingers through the gap,
searching for a surface on the space that is emerging,
listening for a rhythm that the life beyond is turning,
Morning
Mourning
Passing in the crack that now chases round the birthing,
Straining to a place where the edges fight the blurring,
To prey
To pray
Holding to the difference of a heart beginning beating,
Rushing to embrace what may be only fleeting,
A piece
A peace

Night Rain

The sound of rain falling in the deep night is a reminder that every now and then the world needs washing. The dirty streets littered with our selfish striving and strewn with the harshest words, dropped casually during the day, need to be cleaned. Hopes forcibly squeezed out and dreams stolen wait to be washed into drains, longing to be recycled and fed back in sleep’s stories. Prayers of the ones no longer here descend to rattle against our walls and fences, some seep through gaps and splits to water shoots of memory. Fall night rain fall.

We are only people

We are only people,
We tie our hands to straining beasts,
That promise only stretching goals,
Elastic expectations, Self imposed.
We cannot reach, We are no good.
We fail at what we set ourselves,
We cannot measure up.
So stop and sit and be.
And hear the voice inside release.
Let go the ropes that pull,
The one tied to what was,
The one tied to what won’t,
The one tied to the other you,
That whips the fear within.
Sit and share the tears and tears.
Stop and sit and be.
We are only people.

Margins

Ripping and shredding,

Torn from the top,

Wilfully separated,

On the altar of “Us”.

Sinfully split.

Painfully parted.

Barriers bolted and raised to the roof,

Lines strongly marked in the dust of the floor,

Cemented, constructed,

dividing, defined.

We built the walls,

we tore the flesh.

We pushed them over and slammed shut the gate!

We raised the flags.

We sang the songs.

We became us,

So they became them.

And now as we wane and struggle for breath,

We open the gates and we wave,

And we “save”.

We sure up our towers,

We repaint our walls,

We gild bright our faces,

And say, “look what we’ve got!”

I dream of contrition,

Of bloody, bent knee.

Of humble demolition,

Fading power released.

Father forgive us,

We know not what we’ve done!

Look deep

Look deep, my friend, look deep,

When you don’t know who it is you look for.

When the questions of the night survive the darks slow end,

And patience speeds away in breathing change.

Look deep,

for now might be the time it can be found,

Deep amongst the childhood tales,

Woven in the half sung songs of youth,

Pushing to be heard in loss and gift,

Seeking and reaching,

Hiding well,

In the remembered gaze of the loved.

In pictures painted with couldn’t care less strokes,

That had no fear of crossing lines,

And bleeding out.

Listen deep to what once whispered happy ever after now,

And span and ran against imagined skies.

Look deep, my friend, look deep.

For She may still sing.