looking up at the sky
looking up at the sky
The world is so dark
so grey, so gloomy.
Is it possible to write
of beauty, love,
you paint me skies of midwinter:
soft peachy apricots
a palette of moonlight blues
red gold burning on the galloway skyline
pinks, purples, mauves exploding in a
fever by my door.
You scratch words with barebone branches
‘gainst the canvas of midwinter
asking softly, irresistible:
is it possible not to?
I ask question after unanswerable question as I walk.
Old familiar patterns of dead end quests for meaning, patterns, answers, purpose.
The search for a singular purpose
… is it secular or sacred, is it written or is it read, is it big meaning small meaning, is it my work is it teaching, is it worthwhile is it worthless, is it images or words, is it poetry or prose, is it possible to get a sign just a hint of an answer… Continue reading “Meanwhile the Wood”
I have been thinking a fair bit about Advent over the last few weeks.
I used to love Advent as a child. Now I find myself growing increasingly grumpy and cynical in anticipation of the Christmas season, muttering about commercialisation and consumerism and pointless consumption of too much food, drink and stuff.
Without small children around, Christmas loses a lot of its natural magic.
Plus Christmas Eve is the anniversary of my mum’s death, and I know that has shifted and changed my sense of anticipation or looking forward to this time of year, although not necessarily in a negative way (it was a day of exceptional cold, winter sunshine and extraordinary peacefulness that I’m still wonder-ing about). Continue reading “Looking in Advent”
It’s the end of the day, too late for a stone.
I wheel the bin out, ready for the morning. The night is cold, bitter cold, and I’m careful not to slip. Still, something catches my eye and I tip my head back. Look up.
A carpet of stars. The firmament.
Between the trees, the crescent moon, glowing silver white.
It takes my breath away. This late, small stone. This firmament.
‘A real pea souper’.
The glow of red lights
as we follow
yes to the bare bone branches of a cold November morning
yes to the sun just creeping o’er the hill
yes to the pale blue pastels of the sun streaked daybreak
yes to the clouds looming with the promise of the snow
yes to mud in the fields and mud in the boots and mud at the foot of all my clothesyes to the tips of my fingers going numb
yes to driving with gloves on
yes to drinking soup for a heat at lunchtime
yes to the robin waiting hungry by the door
yes to the blackbird crashing noisy in the undergrowth
yes to the berries glowing darkly in the hedgerows
yes to poppy blood remembrance on the days of aching cold
yes to the fog of impossible to see
yes to the call of the geese heading south
yes to the patterns on the nettles on the first full frost of winter
yes to the nights drawing in
yes to the wheel ever turning
yes to harsh cold winter implacably approaching
yes to the sun setting on the fields of Galloway and the sky lit up with gold
yes to mist softly draped round the church in the hollow
yes to the last patch of gold as the oak points skyward
yes to the grace of the trees stripped bare
yes to crows cawing in the silhouette of branches
yes to gothic imagination in the mist filled skies
yes to finger numbing bone aching cold of the mornings
yes to the days that swallow autumn
yes to the gold grey cold grey skies of
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.
ice frozen fingers
a sudden cloud of summer,