Leaves fall into dark soil like heavenly desires unfulfilled. Bare branches reach for the softening light, exposed in austere form. Bruised gatherings of clouds press in as the autumnal release yields. Every withered blossom accepts its place.
Hold still
The quiet mind dissolves, the stilled heart holds - the expanse of faith envelops now and not yet. There is no yearning, and no imagined future - the silence of God moves closer.
A pilgrim’s lament for England
The thatched cottage, the dappled meadow, the ancient spire -
the rural contours of this museum isle
yield ample beauty and refinement.
Decency is sustained by a simple frame
of good manners, banter and tea.
But is this today an abode for the living,
as the land lies dormant and its inhabitants forget?
This island has been made a mausoleum.
The weight of disavowal has obscured the light.
Here, the English pilgrim walks,
with an aching heart and the company of ghosts,
a witness to the unraveling of a Godless land.
Graven image
I made an idol of my life - my expression, my activity, my achievement. I polished, perfected and worshipped my creations, failing to notice that my gifts were a gift. I rightly shored up my fortress from attack, with acts of independence and power. But with such armaments, my heart was incarcerated - all forms became hollow and dry. So my folly was exposed in a thousand myriad ways, as a choreographed play of counterfeit control. As the last in line of the daughters of Eve, it was strange relief to submit and accept: my weakness, my fragility, my dependence. I am now as I always was - helpless unless carried by the stream of the living Spirit. 6th September 2020, Somerset, England With thanks to the exhortation of A.Ha.
Seed – Kathleen Raine
From star to star, from sun and spring and leaf, And almost audible flowers whose sound is silence, And in the common meadows, springs the seed of life. Now the lilies open, and the rose Released by summer from the harmless graves That, centuries deep, are in the air we breathe, And in our earth, and in our daily bread. External and innate dimensions hold The living forms, but not the force of life; For that interior and holy tree That in the heart of hearts outlives the world Spreads earthly shade into eternity.
An act of war
I grow tired of the lies -
the personal, the protective,
the demonic, the divisive.
The tangle of deceit is apparent,
the diverting fictions cheapen,
the debauchery is ever more crude.
From the depths of the soul
there is clarity:
every thought turned to truth
is an act of war.
4th June 2020, Somerset, England.
The coming of wisdom with time – Yeats
Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.
W.B Yeats, 1910
My Spirit Longs For Thee – John Byrom
My spirit longs for Thee
Within my troubled breast,
Though I unworthy be
Of so divine a Guest.
Of so divine a Guest
Unworthy though I be,
Yet has my heart no rest
Unless it come from Thee.
Unless it come from Thee,
In vain I look around;
In all that I can see
No rest is to be found.
No rest is to be found
But in they blessed love:
O, let my wish be crowned,
And send it from above!
J. Byrom of Manchester, England (1692-1763)
Peace of Mind – Kathleen Raine
If the pool were still The reflected world Of tottering houses, The falling cities, The quaking mountains Would cohere on the surface And stars invisible To the troubled mind Be seen in water Drawn from the soul's Bottomless well.
A Gift
Who else could have imagined a gift so wide and bold, as emptiness abundant for all from young to old? Each home a sudden cloister into which we are installed - take note, this points unswervingly to whom we are now called. Seize the chance to seek release into the real embrace, of that which fills the depth and breadth and height of every space. Stilled England, 2nd April 2020
Being a walking question mark 