Category Archives: poetry

The view from the top

empty light shuffling shadows fall out unseen if you never look down

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On returning from a pilgrimage 

Between my hands, wheat and water; bread, flat and pale. In its grain I read the story of hands breaking bread beside a river; light lifts the surface of the water; between fragments, for a moment, I can see the … Continue reading

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The Lost City of Petra

Treasures In Petra, beyond fhe red sands and wild dogs beyond the edifice, extravagant ruins tombs and treasures of the dead beyond the colonnaded avenues beyond the steps worn smooth choreographed by Bedouin and pilgrim feet donkeys and tourists, each … Continue reading

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The not ungrateful leper

It was not ingratitude silenced me, but inadequacy; the paucity of my language; the paltry dance of palsied limbs, trembling as a fawn, trembling as one newly born, barely breathing; rasping out music as though the song had been buried … Continue reading

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Michael and all angels

I am tired of angels. I am tired of their wings beating hollow drums of war, their obsequious, their patronizing, “Do not be afraid;’ their inconvenient words to frightened virgins and old women. I am tired of their entrapment of … Continue reading

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The yearning

I dare not reach for glory, for fear of falling. I cannot bear to love you, for fear of drowning. I dare not turn away from you, for fear of desolation.

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Sea and sky

A week ago, I was in the tropics, enjoying the ocean, the rain forest, the island.  I took my first ever ride on a jet ski; we saw sea turtles, swimming fast and deep, glinting green. I thought about the … Continue reading

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Untethered

There’s a man standing in the lake  on his phone. From my seat between a mallard duck and the old tyre, I watch him, waist deep, cradling his elbow firm against the rock of the waves, watch the clouds scud … Continue reading

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Off centre

The hedgerow maze boxes me in, walls me out through another false turn. In the centre hides perfection, unbreakable cypher, impassive God. Out in the margins of error, the elbow crook of one more dead end, lies Jesus, sprawled as though we … Continue reading

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August

The cicadas are praising God incessantly; while my last frayed nerve curls with the rising humidity, they sing, and play their tiny violins, an orchestra of prayer. I would join them, but my soul is having a bad hair day, refuses … Continue reading

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