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I know the face of God
I have that certainty beyond my sight

I know my fellow pilgrims
I have the certainty of common questions

I doubt my church at its lychgate
I bear my certainty under its shelter
Prompted by lines from Conclave, the movie, and also by my recent discovery of lychgates (also known as resurrection gates), sheltered gates standing between consecrated and un-consecrated space, where coffin bearers would wait for the vicar.
Your songs sweeten this bitter passing
Rudder me through to calmer waters.

Your words secure my departing
Restore my shredded sails
For this last crossing.

But first let me stay a story longer,
Tell me a tale from our voyages together:
Of past storms soothed,
Of old foes bested.

And so ready me to weather this course
To its end.
sometimes i come across a poem I've written (this time from 2017) and I'm almost convinced I must have copied it down from another poet.  But I cannot find this despite my best google-jitsu. I've concluded this did indeed come from my pen.
I was told that there is a house with many rooms in our Father’s New Haven, and when I first heard this, my mind went to an all-inclusive five star hotel, an award winning complex, a beautifully designed block of compartments, one for each of us. A hotel big enough for all of us to have our own en-suite space, with an optional do not disturb on the door, so we could choose when to mingle in the hall ways and when to order 24 hour room service to avoid losing the peace of our own space, a place where you’d rave about the quality of the towels and the silent, unnoticed staff who offer a crisp laundry service and make our beds when our backs are turned, the very best in luxury soaps and shampoos, a walk-in steaming shower, a XXL hot bath, a private pool, perfectly adjusted air con followed by a top of the range kettle that works every time and perfectly complements the décor beside complimentary aromatic teas and potent coffees, with refrigerated fresh milk for those who take it, and the offer of an all-paid-for minibar complete with Toblerones and miniatures, a king sized bed and pillows to match, in front of an oversized all channel TV offering the back catalogue you’ve always dreamed of and to top it all, sound proofed windows and walls so you won’t notice the Pentecostals next door.

Then I looked again, and I saw I was wrong – that this is not an access by key-card hotel, it is our Father’s house. This is our inter-generational family home with many family rooms to explore, communal space where we can all feast and laugh – a piano in the corner, carafes of wine, baskets of warm bread and help-yourself fruit bowls in every direction, deep suites of sofas, full of the hum of long-separated family reunited. A home which offers a warm embrace to all; the fragrance of every-season gardens, the music of a gentle brook and bird song suggestive of dawn all day.

This is a massive mansion which we will never reach the end of, no matter how long our eternity. This is a place to call our forever family home.
John 14: 2-3
“My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.”
Where's the trust?
Where's some loyalty?

What did they do with the respect
that came with shared courage,
with the common courtesy that competed
so well with the tired and bitter?

When did the fear win?
When did suspicion succeed
in dividing us? When did we fall?
And how long can we wait?

How long will we wait
for our disquiet
to override our distrust?
To make us love again.

And what if we don't?
What if it never happens?
What if we never forget to lock the door?
What if this is as good as it gets?

But what if we do?
What if we get to try again?

We’d go for a 4 in the morning walk.
We'd pick up some warm rolls,
And I wouldn't worry about the cracks.
Watching the movie, As Good As It Gets (1997) with Helen Hunt, Jack Nicholson and Greg Kinnear.
Foller Gill’s story treads
seemingly softly, rhythmically,
leaves their fresh green mark
beyond the grey, beaten paths.

Foller Gill takes
the much lesser-trod course,
searches deeper, further, takes
secrets to their mainstream beck.

Euden Beck strides
hungry, curiously thirsty,
pushes past the slow, shaded fields,
scorns their hemmed-in universe.

Bedburn Beck ambles,
tramples down all resistance,
insistent in their pursuit
of an ancient destiny.

The Wear wanders,
snakes towards their final estuary,
savors the holy promise,
the gift of the free, North Sea.

Foller Gill bathes
unbound in their ocean.
And their legend continues.
After Inversnaid, by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
https://allpoetry.com/Inversnaid
You’ll find Foller Gill in the North Pennines National Landscape, as it starts its journey East.
Though a man of competence
might master a non-stick pan
with only casual reading
of its manual, he WILL need
to read the instructions for
a chain saw. The aftermath
of careless use does differ.
Listening to a podcast: Elis James & John Robins from BBC Radio 5 Live.
We thought we had tamed the ancient dragons.
But they were simply sleeping and waiting,
Watching as we, with untested method,
Created a fierce climate most suited
To their needs: heated, hostile, disordered.
We built world-wide high monuments
To hubris, our folly of invention.

And for all this, out of the acrid mist,
Rising through the heat of long decay and
Glowing furnace, we morning to bird song,
To breeze on dewed leaf and green filtered light -
Still with God's warmth - that we may join the song
And lift our face to the creator's sun.
Prompted by Garrard Manley Hopkins poem, 'God's Grandeur'.
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