The storm was predictable,
but not as heavy as its counterparts,
and it was swiftly pushed aside
by the August sun and gusty winds.

The storm was predictable
as most are - eager,
but half-hearted
and susceptible to whim
and winds alike.

The storm was predictable,
but not as dependable as His words,
which quiet any storm,
calm any fears
and deliver us to the far shore,
ready for our next adventure,
whatever the weather.

I am a soft sandal
You are pebble beaches

I am a lace parasol
You are brutal high gales

I am a yellow sundress
You are sudden hail stones

I am scented sunscreen
You are cumulus clouds

I am Mr Whippy
You are a cloud of gulls

You are relentless
But I will adapt

Rowing isn't for me.
Nor drifting aimlessly.
I'd rather raise my sails,
for rowing isn’t for me.
I prefer to let the winds prevail
whether light draft or force 10 gale.
No, rowing isn’t for me.
Nor drifting aimlessly.

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.