No, not a melting ***
you know, the kind you get in industrial kitchens:
heavy, stained, covered and sealed,
left to boil and bubble, leaving questions
about herbs and spices and what we’ve concealed.

No, not a melting ***
but a large, glass salad bowl, the kind you place
in the centre of a garden trestle table
glistening in the sunlight,
with two oversized dark wood serving spoons
and a glossy drizzle of vinaigrette dressing.

The glass revealing every shade
of green and black and red, yellow and white
teasing us with every crunch of each anticipated bite,
each variety and shape, inviting us to participate, to fill our plates
and in this feast of an adventure, to celebrate
what we are - together.

We're all disciples here
We're all disciple makers
We're all apprentices
We're all apprentice takers

Whether you know it or not
There're those who look to you
Give them something worth seeing
Something honest and true

All of us carry our scars
Some costly, all hard earned
Don't waste the sweat and tears
Share the lessons you've learned.

We've all got younger brothers
We've all got younger sisters
Take some time to walk with them
Shake off the doubt that hinders

We're all disciples here
We're all disciple makers
We're all apprentices
We're all apprentice takers

His name is Magic -
not because of the wand,
the battered pointed hat,
or his habit of not letting dragons pass,
but because, time and time again,
he was there when needed
and did what was required
to make life go a little smoother.
- Magic.

I felt my self mix and fold
equal portions of opposing selves,
a mix and fold of savoury and sweet
dark and light, crunchy and smooth
intrigue and delight
until the sweet hit of my self doubt
eventually cloaked the savoury of self knowledge
creating a disturbing after taste, which blurted out:
"Surely not me, Lord?"
And he handed the bread and the wine to me.

I want those years. Promise me,
cos I want those years - it's not a lot to ask.

I want the years when you tell me our stories,
when we laugh and you sing our song,
when we dance slow and you breath on my neck.

I want those years and then we can sleep
together on our old bed. And we can keep the space
closed between us. And between us
we can have those years.

Please. Promise me.

A pick up at Gatwick
at way past midnight
is a glimpse into the void
tempered only by the joy
and delight of family
reunited

The sun is down
It's been down for a while
and while she hasn't said outright,
we think it might
be a power play
for a perceived lack of praise

The sun is down
We have been discussing
ways to raise her spirits
without out and out worship
(which would set
an unhelpful precedent)
And so we start with a song
A homage, thanking her
A call, asking her to rise and smile
And it only takes a child sacrifice
once, twice and thrice
to coax her back - a small price,
and before long she's her old delight
and we tell ourselves it's not worship
it's just the just payment due
based on the new tarrifs
for light and heat
and the cost of living
in this solar energy
over dependancy
greener economy