2. Dance

Image from the CoE’s #LiveLent app, Day 2

I come
to lose myself
in the brightness
of the King, to
join the crashing waves
the whistling winds
and glistening leaves
in joyful adoration,
to raise a song,
like a string quivering
at the strumming
of the maestro,
a tune pregnant
with desire
its purpose revealed
in the reveling
of those who hear,
many voices,
all together
as one.

1. A Poem For Remembering We Are Dust

Photo by Kelly Kiernan on Unsplash

For Lent this year, I’m choosing to reflect via the medium of poetry, inspired in part by Pádraig Ó Tuama’s Poetry Unbound podcast and an inability to pray, in any formal sense of the word. What started as a season of uncertainty has evolved into something bigger, hence this, an attempt to use poetry as prayer. These will be a response to the daily reflection from the Church of England’s LiveLent app which this year encourages us to reflect on creation and how we can be better stewards of it. Here goes! NB for a version in which I attempt to read, visit the anchor.fm page.
The bright gleam
of sunlight reflecting
in the glass and the steel
of the hills we have built
lull me into forgetting,
that this – these monuments
to our power and resolve
which wrap themselves
like a shroud around
the horizon, a scar from
a wound revived in the present,
tethering us to the certainty
of the things we think we know-
is but a moment,
fleeting in its existence.

The beauty
of things which are unseen
is their intricacy,
how closely knit together
they can appear,
how easy it is for them
to unravel like a slip
of fine cashmere, once
a string begins to slip.
This is what beauty is,
observed in the frail,
reminding us that we are dust
and from dust
to which we must return
when time untethers us
from this rock
to which we cling.


For The Sunday Muse Prompt #95.

It thunders,
and then it wafts,
its wispy tendrils
slowly rising like
the white smoke
of incense from a censer,
held aloft by a priest
intoning a muttered
prayer. Behind,
a bridge to the past
hides, disappearing,
as it were, into
the haze of memory;
ahead, the future –
not yet glimpsed
but in the moment
frozen – and enjoyed.


For The Sunday Muse Prompt #84. Image Source.
Behind the grime,
and the ravages
of time the remains
of living now lie,
each layer of dirt
a sigh, a dirge
for the mystery
of abandonment,
for how easy
it is for things
once woven into
the fabric of the
present to slip
beneath the shroud
of the memories
we lose. Maybe this
is what leaving is,
things returning
to the way they
always were.

After The Rain

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #83. Image “After The Rain” by Cyril Rolando

I tremble
at the echo of
the booming thunder,
the resounding
of its clap like
the roar of a lion
stirred, a brilliance
incandescent in its majesty
as it splits the night sky
like a warm knife
shears butter.

I have shivered
in the embrace
of a light rain
its fluid fingers,
by persistence finding
their way through
my garments till
they meet my
bare skin.

Where streams
once wrestled
against the heat,
against the dust,
the wind and the
thirsty earth,
a raging river
now reigns.
After the rain
comes surrender,
new life and
breathing again.