Poetry
With a heavy thud, metal scrapes soil,
breaking,
exposing,
lifting,
turning,
shaking loose to repeat again.

Weathered hands stoop low
invading the wound,
scraping,
turning,
prying out the stones.

Light streams into broken ground
warmth pervades cold damp soil.
Gentle hands invade again,
poking,
digging,
planting seeds.

Water drenches
chilling floods of nourishment.
Darkness decends,
the protective cover of soil.
Dormant dreams must lie in wait.
Advertisements
Poetry

Carry On

The shrill buzz of insects fills the air,
busy in their preparations as afternoon light fades away.
Soggy ground squishes under slow heavy steps,
deliberate in their placement
testing their footing
trudging through swampy marsh.
Sweat drips from furrowed brow, eyes squint in fading light.
Pests of the night seek relief, swatted away by steady hands.
Eyes search out a place to set up camp,
relief from the heat.
The rest is not long, a quagmire awaits weary travellers who don’t move on.
With dawn, the journey continues.
The muffled steps drowned out by
birds chattering, singing their morning song.
The traveller carries on.
End not yet in sight, the journey still unfolding, tho weary, carry on.
With each step, discovery,
the bog holds relics of those who’ve gone before,
guideposts towards home.

Poetry

Soliloquy Of Hope

Frayed edges weary and raw
from fighting unseen battles.
Uncertainty clouds, rain pours down.
Weary troops bunker in for the night –
another day, another fight.

Songs hummed from trenches
fill the dreary night with
beacons of hope.
Melodies, the soliloquy of another life
a distant memory.

When battle ends what becomes of men
weary and scarred from the fight?
That distant life is no longer – that
which they were is gone.
What next?

Hope gives birth to new dawn,
a re-creation.
Embraced only in the letting go,
grief of what has gone before,
from death, new life emerges.

Poetry

Messy & unfinished

Behind the door, a room awaits,
shelves filled with boxes,
perfect lines, neat categories,
everything has a place.

Boxes coded, classified;
no mystery allowed to remain.
A cold precision controls what
is forbidden, what may stay.

Sheltered from the elements,
everything is protected,
locked behind case and key,
safe, but hidden away.

An invitation to open the door,
fresh life blows in.
Boxes lifted, lids removed,
contents spilt and strewn.

Messy.

What comes next?
A frantic effort to regain order?
The rediscovery of forgotten gifts?
Cleaning or living?

The answer is yet to be seen.

Poetry

Simple conversations

In the seemingly simple conversation, words fall;
igniting a spark, faded embers turning into wildfires,
thawing winter ground.
Words spoken, so ordinary, yet weighty
seedlings of hope emerge from sacred ground,
as dreams long forgotten are reawakened.
Breath into dry bones, spirit coming alive
through stories of kindness and memoirs of hope.
Grace is gently nudging, guiding, waiting.
Simple conversations igniting the flame,
a pathway of light, leading us closer
to Home.