A poem is a flawed thing
made by damaged hands,
thoughts yet complete,
words unsound,
but close, like a whisper away,
as close as a line-break,
to the heart of something

Striving in fear
or living in favour
Feeling the dread
or hearing the angel

The panic speaks
eloquently and persistently,
telling me that I need a new filter
by which to drink in, to inhale
the good
and like an extreme diver, hold it in
while exploring the dark places.

You see,
the panic we feel on the surface
only serves to take us down,
while it denies us the means of rising again.

But if I can learn to pause,
to take in the good,
the wholesome, the nutritional,
then I can ready myself
to face the dark
and, having done so,
I will find the light again.

Don't be a local.
Don't deny yourself the wonder.
Don't forego the sunlight,
the movement of the sky
the dance of the water

Don't be a local.
Don't focus on timetables.
Don't get lost in ferry dramas.
Lift your head into the wind
and take in the glacial.

"We can't help you with that,
but we can offer you
an open gate,
an honest smile,
a living room carpeted
with warmth
and trimmed
with good conversation.

"What we do have
we can offer you,
rest for your bones
and truth at our hearth.

"You are most welcome."

There are things of great significance
greatly sought
greatly valued
which I cannot put in a search bar

There are things I cannot place
on a spreadsheet
or in my pocket
which I place above all else

There are things I find
difficult to quantify
impossible to define
but which have immense meaning

And so, I do not try
to capture them
to count them
and instead I invite them in

Too tired to give
an egg a clean break,
he crunched
into his omelette,
ready for bed