I carry my bags beneath
my no longer baby blues,
partly framed
and closer to grey

The bags darken with their weight
and they unwittingly pull
the eye down
from the splayed crows feet

I carry my bags

I’m getting closer to someone I used to know
I’m getting within an uneasy grasp of his shadow
a recognition of him beneath the scars
trusting the healing, the tender tissue
letting me feel beyond first sight and fading sound
reaching deep down to what has always been
inside

Sometimes when I look into the storms, I see Jesus.
But sometimes I just see my fears
competing for the pleasure of being the first to swallow me.
It's typical of me to see more of the slap of the waves
hear more of the thunder clap
and miss his soft song.
It's typical of me
to stare too long into the jaws of the gale
and to miss the arms that bring calm
- to listen too intently at the fury
and miss the whisper of his promised peace
- to sail deep into the shadows of the storms,
catching the detail
and not share in the warmth of the rising sun.

Sometimes when I face the storms, I see Jesus.
Sometimes.

I can only see half your story
in the part sunken stone
in the cracked and faded words
chosen by those you loved.

I can only see in part
what was no doubt a full life
with deep loves, long summers
and shared travels ending in West 7.

I can only imagine the rest
from my cracked path’s prospect
in the silence of ancient trees,
and the laughter of early birds.

No need to thank me.
I mean, what are bullies for?

If not to force you
to face the unpalatable.
To confront you
with the cruelest kindness.

To unrelent with unfair truth
leaving you no choice,
but to fight for your life
and strengthen your defence.

What are best bullies for?
But to boost the beast
for when he's needed.

No need to thank me.
You'd do the same for me.

What remains of the day
is of greater value due to
its failure to yet emerge,
its ability to yet be known
and it's there that lies
its potential
to not fail to meet
its true potential
- unlike the past

It’s early – the dominant sun rises, giving
a growing warmth as the urgent seeds dive deep
and the faithful sower dips his head,
dips his hand on repeat and sweeps his graceful arm
away from his small stomach, from his shrinking satchel,
trusting the seed to the sun
and working his way back to the feast.