Not Yet

Everything is wind at the Solway coast, everything is.

The wind is biting, bitter from the north and everything is bleached, everything is.

Everything is salted with the winter not yet going and the spring not being here.

Not yet.

Everything is not yet.

Everything is cold, everything is biting, everything is bitter.

Everything is bleached with length.

Everything is bitter being.

Everything is.


Everything is not yet springing.

Everything is not yet singing.

Everything is not yet singing even as the skylark sings.

Everything is song of summer, even as the spring not yet.

Everything is spring not yet.

Everything is not yet.

Everything is not.


Even as the skylark sings.

Even as the skylark sings the sky is full of song.

Everything is full of sky and everything is song.

Everything is skylark song.

Even as the skylark sings, everything is spring and even as the spring is singing, everything is summer birds and everything is summer.

Everything is.

Everything is singing.

Everything is singing and everything is song, everything is.

Everything is singing as the skylark sings.

Even as the wind is biting, even as the bitter’s bleaching, even as the skylark’s singing, everything is.


For an audio version of this prose poem, please press the arrow on the box below.

Feeding the Birds

It’s a simple ritual.

Breakfast time feeding on a cold winter’s morning.

Tidying, pouring on the altar of the table,

The hungry redbreast who’s there before you’re ready,

The calls, and chirrups, as word gets around,

Birdsong bursting in the cold of the morning,

The echoed call of gratitude in your own sweet heart.

The search for the word for the feeling of the moment:

Holy, your heart says,


The ritual of the morning,

The hymn to creation,

Communion with nature,

Breaking bread with the birds.